


Steal all the stars from the sky

by liripip



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Teacher-Student Relationship, canon adjacent, emotionally illiterate Byleth, mentioned Claude/Linhardt, past Claude/Hilda, pre-time skip romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:00:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 80,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23365105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liripip/pseuds/liripip
Summary: When a simple discovery strikes a nerve within the Church, Claude realizes that its dirty secrets are finally within striking distance.For answers, he is prepared to pay the price. Byleth isn't prepared to let him.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 346
Kudos: 248





	1. The miscreant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Byleth experiences a new emotion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first fic for this fandom, which I have been working on for several months now and feel is progressed enough to start posting. I was already well along when Cindered Shadows dropped, so I will pretend that story never happened and none of the revelations in it ever reached these characters. I estimate the fic will end up at maybe 40k words (Note as of November at 70k: lol), of which about 3/4 are roughed out. 
> 
> \------------------------------ 
> 
> This fic starts out so light-hearted that I thought it appropriate to add a general warning for how it develops. I am planning to make the ending pretty happy, but it's not really a feel-good fic. The end notes have more details for those who wish to know what they're getting into.

Byleth has never been a heavy sleeper. Life on the road has made her accustomed to threats appearing at a moment’s notice, and it is in that mindset she reacts when someone knocks on her door sometime in the small hours of the night. She stumbles out of bed, grabs her sword off its peg, and opens the door with it drawn and ready for anything. 

What meets her is not quite the emergency she was bracing for. 

Instead, Seteth, Claude and Linhardt stand outside her door. Their faces read, in order: 

\- Found piss in his porridge, 

\- Knows who pissed in Seteth’s porridge and is having a grand time dangling the knowledge over his head, and 

\- Doesn’t care about the piss-porridge and wants to go to bed already. 

“Yes?” she says, blinking bleary eyes at her visitors. Wordlessly, she sheathes her sword and grabs the blanket off the bed to wrap it around her shoulders and ward off the autumn chill. “What do you want.” She regards Seteth stonily, eyebrows rising a fraction of a millimeter at his primly averted gaze. What, was he expecting her in armor at balls o’clock in the morning? 

Though that actually gives her an idea for a training exercise… Take the Deer out on the road and fake an attack when they’re asleep, maybe help Hilda realize that she can in fact swing an axe even without lipgloss and a fresh manicure. 

Seteth clears his throat and pushes Claude forward with a hand firmly clamped to his collar. “I want you to take custody of this,” Seteth pauses. _“Miscreant._ ” 

“Morning, Teach,” her wayward house leader chirps. Now that he’s underneath the dim lamp hanging outside her door, she can see clumps of spiderwebs caught in his hair. The knees of his trousers are caked in dust. Silently, Byleth looks between him and the equally dusty Linhardt, who smiles vacantly back at her. _Wonderful_. If these two have joined forces, no secret in the monastery is safe. She’ll probably have to put guards on Marianne to give the poor girl some peace and quiet. 

“It’s hardly morning yet,” she answers, glancing at the moon. “What did you do this time?” 

Claude’s grinning mouth opens to reply, and Byleth can see Seteth’s fist tighten warningly. 

“I found them engaging in conduct unbecoming of this academy in the closed stacks of the library, which are off-limits to students and, I am most certain, kept _locked_.” 

“Ah,” she says, searching Claude’s face. He’s wearing his cheekiness like a suit of armor. “I see.” She nods, and when Seteth seems disinclined to let go of her charge’s collar without her signing off on having taken custody, Claude extends an arm and Byleth solemnly grasps hold of his sleeve. 

“What about him?” she asks, nodding at Linhardt, who seems to have lost interest in the proceedings and retreated into his own head. Seteth looks like he just bit right into a lemon. 

“I hope to persuade Manuela to talk some sense into him,” he says woodenly, and Claude’s lips twitch. 

“I see,” Byleth repeats in the same expressionless tone, her gaze searching Claude’s face for clues. No luck. His mask is impenetrable, eyes cool and observant over the cheery grin. 

Seteth sighs but turns on his heel and marches off, dragging Linhardt along by the elbow. The boy looks over his shoulder as he goes, and Claude waggles the fingers of his free hand in goodbye. 

“’Conduct unbecoming’,” she says once they’re out of earshot. She feels something hard and narrow under her hand, hidden in the fabric of Claude’s golden sleeve. “What does that mean?” He shrugs, his expression easing into something a little more relaxed. He’s not exactly letting her read him, but he’s clearly lowering his defenses a bit now that Seteth has left. 

“Oh, you know,” he says breezily. “Young love and all that. Can’t keep our hands off each other. That’s a lock-pick, you can stop poking at it.” 

“Mmhmm,” she says, “Hand it over.” Claude sighs but complies, and Byleth, realizing she’s in her pyjamas with its distressing lack of pockets, tucks it behind her ear. “You and Linhardt in a forbidden library, with lock-picks.” She moves on to his other sleeve. “Forgive me if I’m not convinced romance was at the top of your minds.” 

“…Fair,” Claude admits. “But if I _were_ to ask Lin on a date, which — having seen him pick a lock, I am _smitten_ , he is _so fast_ — the stacks are absolutely where I’d take him.” He grins. “And FYI: we kissed, and you should totally ask Seteth about it. He was so uncomfortable I thought he was about to explode.” 

Byleth chuckles despite herself. 

“Well,” she says, shaking her head as she finds another hard shape hidden in the seams. “I’m glad to hear Linhardt applies himself to something. But we talked about this. Everyone’s on edge, more so than ever since the whole Flayn business. This is not a good time for… recreational burglary. If some over-excitable guard had caught you instead of Seteth, you could have a sword in your gut rather than double chores for a week.” 

Claude huffs. 

“I said I’d stay out of the holy sites, fine. This is the _library_. I was only in there in the first place because Seteth is censoring my education.” 

Byleth raises an eyebrow. 

“Your education in shooting a bow and commanding a battalion.” 

Claude gives her a withering look. 

“Yeah, just _imagine_ a supposed leader of a nation wanting to learn about its history,” Claude says, rolling his eyes. “ _Preposterous._ Come on, you know the Church is hiding something. A _lot_ of somethings. The entire record of the campaign against Nemesis doesn’t make any sense, and you if anyone is good enough a strategist to tell.” 

Byleth regards him with a sigh. 

“It was a long time ago, Claude. Perhaps it just got muddled.” 

“Mm, and yet they somehow kept immaculate records of their wool purchases during the entire war.” 

“Is that what you were looking for?” she asks, pressing her thumbs along the sides of the object hidden in his sleeve. “Wool records?” 

“Well, not wool specifically, although textile merchants tend to keep particularly detailed records because fashion changes much more quickly than like, food and stuff. We can actually trace—” 

Byleth smiles despite herself, cutting him off before he manages to distract her. 

“What’s this?” she asks, tapping the thing in his sleeve. 

Claude pouts at her for a moment, then holds up his hand for her to see. He flicks his wrist and suddenly a slim throwing knife is dancing between his fingers. “Careful,” he says, interrupting its movement and offering it to her, handle first. “It’s poisoned.” 

Byleth takes it gingerly and twists and turns it under the lamplight. Something viscous clings to the blade. 

“Is it lethal?” 

“No, but it’s unpleasant. And you open your door with a drawn blade, so I don’t really think you’re in any place to criticize.” 

Byleth nods, returning the blade which vanishes up Claude’s sleeve with a gentle _snick_. It’s only weeks since Flayn was taken. If her students aren’t taking precautions she’s not getting through to them. 

“Did you make it yourself?” she asks. “The poison?” 

“Yeah!” Claude says, and then he’s launching off into a detailed explanation of the process and ingredients — they keep _what_ in the kitchens, is that safe? — and Byleth goes a little cross eyed. Still, she keeps smiling and nodding and humming, because Claude seems to have dropped the last of his defenses in favor of animatedly miming out how to separate some seeds she’s never heard of from their husks and while she doesn’t follow half of his explanation, his enthusiasm is endearing. It’s a novel feeling to her. 

Poison brewing. Picking locks. Throwing knives flicked in and out of his sleeves by fingers too quick to follow, the same fingers she’s spotted nimbly vanishing playing cards to cheat Sylvain out of his spending money. And she is almost certain Claude was behind the mysterious disappearance of Lorenz’s trumpet a few weeks ago, which she privately considers as an act of international diplomacy rather than the grand larceny Lorenz would have it called. She wonders how he did it, though. Lorenz had been asleep in his bed the entire time, and both the door and shutters were locked from inside. 

He’s certainly going to make an interesting duke, she thinks as Claude bubbles on happily about nerve agents. She wonders where the old duke found him. 

Well. 

She has some idea. _The Almyran boy_ , her father had called him when they were drinking together a few months back, before backtracking at her confused expression. _The Riegan kid. It’s his stance when he shoots_ , he’d explained. _They do it like that over there, cause it’s so windy. Remember Arash? He stood the same way._

Her father had drank slow and deep from his tankard while Byleth considered. She does remember Arash, vaguely, enough to know that she’d been shit at archery when he’d tried to teach her. She can’t recall his face, though. But thinking about faces, she supposes Claude shares his coloring more with Cyril than with his classmates. 

_Probably better off keeping that to yourself, though,_ her father had continued. _Almyrans aren’t popular in Leicester. Could make things awkward for him._

Interesting. 

So… Claude is a bastard, she supposes, spawned across the border either by the old duke himself or his late son. She wonders if he was training to be an assassin before House Riegan found itself in sudden need of an heir. She wonders if he was an assassin _for_ House Riegan. Her father’s mercenary band has certainly gotten mixed up in enough Leicester melodrama for her to have some idea about how the competing noble houses play their game. 

Assuming that is her job in the aftermath of this bookish little crime spree, Byleth pats up the rest of Claude’s arms and down his shoulders. He keeps talking, turning around when she pulls at his arm to check his back. 

“What’s this?” she asks, tapping at something hard and squarish at the small of his back. 

“A library book,” he says, voice low. He looks at her over his shoulder. “The one with the picture of the Immaculate One.” 

Byleth sighs. 

“You’re not supposed to have that,” she says. 

“No shit,” he says, turning and grabbing her hands. His fingers are warm where they wrap around the back of her palms, his eyes fixed intently on hers. “Why do you think I want it? You were there when Seteth took it. He’s hiding something.” 

“Claude,” she says. “Does he know you have it.” 

“Of course not, that was the whole point. He was so embarrassed by Lin’s hand down my pants he didn’t even think to search us, he just took our bags.” 

“He’s going to notice it missing sooner or later. And you are the obvious suspect.” She pauses to rub the crease between her eyebrows, feeling the headache stir. “This was exactly what I meant when I told you to _stop. Antagonizing. The Church_.” 

“So what,” Claude drops her hands and crosses his arms sullenly. “You want me to shut up about them controlling _everything_ with zero accountability and bow my head like a good little peon?” 

Byleth sighs. 

“I want you to avoid provoking the decapitation-happy arch-bishop whose goodwill you’re dependent on. Now give me the book.” 

Claude raises his chin. “No,” he says, glaring at her through narrowed eyes. “Get it yourself if you want it so bad.” 

At first Byleth thinks he’s going to make a run for it, make her chase him around the monastery in her night clothes, but he just stands there, arms crossed, challenge in his eyes. She looks at him for a few seconds before shaking her head, then reaching out to undo the hooks fastening the front of his coat together. Claude stands stock still, watching her as she reaches into his coat and around his back, her cheeks heating as she feels around for the edges of the narrow volume tucked into his waistband. His undershirt does nothing to hide the heat of him, and the thin silk clings to the book when she pulls it free, coming loose and exposing a swath of skin a few fingers wide along his side. Something about the sharp jut of his hip bone gives her a funny feeling in her stomach. She tears her eyes away, fixing her eyes on the book instead. 

“I’m confiscating this,” she says, mouth dry. 

“I figured,” he says with a sigh, one hand scratching through his hair. Byleth has to avert her eyes from the graceful arch of his exposed collarbones. “Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate you looking out for me. But I can handlethe politics, okay? I’m not gonna do anything to make it worth the mess doing away with me would cause.” 

“I hope you’re right,” she says, eyes drifting to his face. “Good night, Claude.” 

“Night, Teach,” he says, wetting his lips as their eyes lock. Byleth swallows. “Sweet dreams.” 

She nods and goes back into her room, latching the door behind her. She stands there for several seconds, listening to Claude linger for a moment before his footsteps fade into the distance. Her cheeks feel hot. 

Privately, she’s not so sure he knows how hot the fire he’s playing with burns. From up close it’s easy to see Rhea’s iron fists through the velvet gloves, and while Shamir and Byleth herself might be excused their lack of faith, Byleth strongly doubts that Rhea would allow Claude to take the reins of a third of Fódlan if word of his religious musings got back to her. 

No. She’d be looking for an excuse to get rid of him, and he seems all too eager to provide one. Byleth already has multiple contingency plans ready for the day he somehow manages to draw the wrath of the Church of Seiros down upon himself, and if she can’t stop him from throwing his position away, she can at least stand between Claude and harm and see exactly how deep Rhea’s strange affection for her runs. She has laid her life on the line for causes she cared less about than that, after all. 

And then Lorenz would lead the Alliance, Goddess help them all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \------------------------------ 
> 
> General content warning (Feb 2021):   
> Grief is explored at length. The Claudeleth dynamic, at least in the early stages of their actual relationship, is messed up. Claude is at times a real asshole. Byleth's devotion to him isn't healthy. Hilda is casually racist, classist, aggressively gender normative... They'll all do bad things at one point or another, and they'll all grow to be better versions of themselves. Mostly. 
> 
> The setting itself isn't rainbows and unicorns either. Sexual double standards are rampant and the fanfic-regular everyone is gay and nobody has a problem with it does not apply. Our main characters, save maybe Byleth who instead fails to heed social norms like "don't sleep with your students", are not immune to the prejudices of their world. 
> 
> \------------------------------ 
> 
> Original end notes: 
> 
> Claude's excuse for breaking into the stacks: Well you said I couldn't read it so I had to or I would die  
> Linhardt's excuse: Oh, this area is restricted? *yawn* I though I just missed the opening hours
> 
> I hope you enjoy, remember that comments and kudos feed the writer brain, and come say hi on my (nsfw) [twitter](https://twitter.com/liripip) if you want to behold my drawings of Claude very secretly petting cats.


	2. The distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude enlists the help of a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One Caspar von Bergliez was hurt during the production of this chapter. 
> 
> Sorry about that.

Claude wakes up early the next morning to set his plan in motion. He washes and dresses quickly, making a valiant attempt to brush the worst of the dust off his coat because his only spare is already in the laundry, then jogs down to the dining hall as soon as the first bell rings signaling breakfast is ready. He picks out his usual fare plus one each of everything sweet, then absconds with the tray back to the dorms. The upper floor corridor is still quiet this early, save for Ingrid who looks out her door suspiciously and gives him a disapproving look as he knocks on Hilda’s door.

She doesn’t answer, but when he presses his ear to the door he can hear movement inside.

“I have pastries,” he says to the dark wood. “The raspberry ones that are always gone when you drag yourself to breakfast.”

The door cracks open, pink eyes squinting at his offering through the gap.

“…fine,” she says, opening the door. She’s in her nightgown, a beautifully embroidered dressing gown draped elegantly off her shoulders. He thinks she might have quickly done her eyebrows before answering. “Get in here before anyone sees me in this state.”

The door closes behind them and Claude sets the tray down on her nightstand, flopping himself onto her unmade bed. Hilda grabs the promised raspberry roll.

“So what do you want?” she asks between delicate bites through the flaky crust, fingers combing her hair out of the loose braid she sleeps with.

“Do I have to want something? Besides sharing a meal with my very bestest friend in the whole wide world, that is?”

She laughs, reaching for her hairbrush.

“Well in that case. Would you be _ever so kind_ as to make my bed before you get crumbs all over it?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles through a mouthful of bread, wiggling around until he’s gotten the duvet into some approximation of between himself and the sheet. “But fine. I need you to distract Teach for me.”

“Oh~?” She smooths her parted hair and gathers it into a pigtail, her eyes glittering with mirth. “Are you planning a surprise for her? Something _romantic_?”

“What? No. I need something from her room.”

“Really?” She squints at him through the mirror as she finishes her hair by carefully pulling a few strands loose to frame her face. “Girls don’t like it when you go through their stuff.”

“This isn’t a girl thing, it’s a library thing.”

Hilda rolls her eyes into the mirror, dabbing something under her eyes with practiced movements.

“Wow, I’m suddenly so much less interested in helping you.”

“Fine.” He gestures dramatically with his half-eaten toast. “I have written her an epic cycle of love poems and I need your help to sneak them into her room, along with a cartload of roses.”

“That sounds like something Lorenz would do.”

“Ugh, you’re right. Okay — It’s a suggestive limerick and… What’s the most outrageously inappropriate flower I could give her?”

Hilda turns around, leaning her hip back on her makeup table. She lifts a now perfectly defined eyebrow.

“Bishop’s lace,” she says with a saucy grin.

“Yeah? What does it mean?”

“Oh, something boring… Safety or something,” she says, so airy and innocent that a hunch stops him from taking a sip of tea. Their eyes meet over the rim of his cup, his narrowing at the mischief dancing in hers.

“Aaaaand?” he prompts, and she shrugs slightly, turning back around to dab a brush at her cheeks. Her eyebrows wag.

“But if she eats the seeds you won’t get her pregnant.”

Claude sputters a laugh that turns into a cough, and Hilda snickers.

“You’re blushing~,” she singsongs. “Aww, does widdle Claude have a crush on the Professor?”

“Shut up,” he says, covering his traitorously giggling face with a hand.

“I think he does~.” She grins wickedly. “I think he’s thinking about _not getting her pregnant_ right now~.”

“ _I am not,_ ” he groans, pulling the pillow from behind his back and covering his face with it.

“Then why are you so red~?” she croons, trying to tug the pillow away from him. “Oh.” Her voice turns into a drawl, the words rolling sensually over her tongue, “Are you obsessing over her _long and powerful sword_ again?”

“By the _Gods._ ” He has actual tears in his eyes. “That’s a fucking sacred artifact, Hilda!”

“Yeah, because that would stop you,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “I’ve seen you giving it bedroom eyes. But fine. Do my weeding this week and I’ll help you with your weird flirting.”

She tosses her dressing gown over his head before changing into her uniform, and somehow, despite a near hour of idle chatting while she amuses herself by painting his nails pink, almost manages to make them late.

They do end up having to sit in the back, which Claude for a moment fears will make things more difficult.

But Hilda rises to the challenge with gusto. She acts the attentive student throughout the lecture, asking questions and getting things that Claude _knows_ she understands wrong. This incites Lysithea to pounce in and correct her, Hilda making impressed noises as their resident child prodigy shows off. It’s a clever move; Byleth would get suspicious if Hilda of all people stayed behind after class, but by getting Lysithea as her unknowing accomplice she’s made the whole ploy a lot less noticeable.

Class ends and Claude takes his time to gather up his stuff while Hilda saunters to the front, calling for Byleth’s attention in a voice that’s sure to carry to all their remaining classmates. Sure enough, Lysithea, who was just about to hurry off to the library, perks up like a cat spotting prey and beelines back to dazzle their professor some more.

Claude allows himself to grin once he’s turned his back.

Game on.

He walks briskly back toward the dormitories, careful not to attract unnecessary attention. Once around the corner and opposite the door to the training grounds he quickly checks over his shoulder then crouches down, softly beckoning to the grey tabby watching him from the bushes. The cat trots over curiously and Claude gives her a quick scritching behind the ears until she flops over, showing her belly and mewling.

“Oh no,” he murmurs, “I’m not falling for that trick again. But I’ve got something for you…” He pulls a wrapped package from his pocket and extracts a small dried fish. Hilda had complained about the smell during class, but the cat’s attention snaps to it greedily as she gives up all pretense of being cuddly. “Like that, do you?” he whispers, petting her head again as she eats. She ignores him, but the big tortoiseshell and the black one stalking towards them from opposite directions do not. “I’m gonna cause a little bit of a riot around here now, sorry about that.” The cat butts his hand. She has finished her fish and wants another one, so Claude pulls one out for her, tossing one each toward the black cat and the tortie. Several other cats are approaching.

Claude grins and tosses the rest of the package into the bushes, bows to the congregating feline combatants and makes his escape. Behind him he hears Marianne exclaim in dismay, and when he turns to look over his shoulder she has taken on the unenviable task of trying to teach, let’s see, five, six, seven, eight vicious little murderers the art of sharing.

She is not successful.

Then Caspar barges in and makes a grab for the package, and what was a tense kitty standoff turns into absolute mayhem, set to the music of furious yowls and Caspar’s high-pitched screeching. Only Linhardt is looking his way when he shimmies Byleth’s lock open, and Claude throws him a cheeky salute.

So far so good. She will of course know it was him, but he’s pretty sure she won’t go so far as to search his room for a stolen book, particularly since her goal here seems to be to _not_ get him in trouble.

And should she, he’s pretty sure his hiding places will stand up to her scrutiny.

She’s not that sneaky, so obvious places first. Nothing on the desk, nothing on her nightstand. He finds their essays from last week in a drawer and rifles through them quickly to make sure he did okay, but no Immaculate Ones in any of her unlocked drawers. Alright, he hopes she doesn’t keep anything too private in the locked one, then — nope, just money and a few pieces of jewelry he’s never seen her wear. He preens a little, because she _does_ wear the charm bracelet he picked out for her for her birthday.

That leaves the drawers of her nightstand, which. Yeah. He’d certainly not want her to go poking through his, but she did kinda bring this on herself when she got between him and a mystery.

There’s a book in the top one — she _puts away_ her book before sleeping, what kind of crazy neat freak would do such a thing, that’s _insane_ — and a hairbrush, and a pebble that Claude agrees does look kinda cool, dark green and with sharp crystalline edges. He steels himself and checks the bottom drawer, which to his simultaneous relief and disappointment is also empty.

Okay.

Carding his hands through his hair, he turns to survey the room. He frowns. She has so little _stuff,_ it’s like she’s ready to pack up and leave at any moment. Now he himself keeps his treasures and his go bag under a false bottom beneath a loose floorboard under his desk, but Byleth leaves the damned _Sword of the Creator_ resting on a couple pegs on the wall, so he can’t imagine she’d go through all that much effort to hide a library book.

He watches the sword for a moment. He wants to reach out to it, just to find out if it by some magic would respond to him too, but what happened to Sylvain’s brother has etched itself into his memory and given him more than one nightmare. He swallows, and decides on ‘no’. Not until he understands more about what’s really going on with it, and its wielder, and where it came from.

He’s patting down the bed to see if the book is hidden under the covers when the door is yanked open, and before he has a chance to get out of the way Byleth comes barreling into him, tackling him off his feet and onto the mattress. He flails for a moment, and then he’s pinned face-down with her knee lodged in his back, his right arm bent up awkwardly in a position that doesn’t hurt _right now_ but he suspects will dislocate his shoulder if she applies even the slightest bit of pressure.

“Looking for something?” she asks. He thinks she’s going for conversational, but there’s a hint of a growl in her voice.

“Oof,” he says, tugging carefully on his arm. Byleth’s fingers tighten around his wrist in warning, so Claude goes limp and evaluates the situation instead. He’s… surprisingly calm. Stars know that being rushed and overpowered hasn’t generally ended well for him, yet here he lies, no more unnerved by the situation than he’s been the dozens of times she’s taken him down in the training grounds.

“Not gonna lie,” he says, wriggling a little to be able to look at her over his shoulder. Byleth obligingly refrains from breaking his arm, and he rewards her with his most impish grin. “I thought it would be harder than this getting in your bed.” Her eyes widen, her mouth forming a surprised little ‘o’, and Claude laughs. “Do I get a safeword?”

Byleth drops his arm like she’d scalded herself on his skin.

“You are incorrigible,” she grumbles, flicking his ear before scuttling off of him to sit cross-legged at the foot of the bed. Her cheeks are tinged prettily in pink, and Claude mentally congratulates himself on a job well done. “And a terrible thief. This is the second time you’ve gotten caught today.”

“…I admit that hasn’t really been working out for me lately,” he says, rolling himself up into a sitting position. “You’re a lot better at hiding stuff than I gave you credit for.”

Byleth lifts an eyebrow and pats her coat pocket, and Claude sags in defeat.

“I’m not dumb enough to leave something you’ve already stolen once unattended,” she says with a snort. “But I’ve been thinking.”

“Yeah?”

She rubs at the bridge of her nose, and Claude gives her the time to pick her words. Her fingers pulls the book out of her pocket.

“I’m serious about Rhea. She… If she thinks you’re a threat to the Church, she can take the Alliance from you with a word. She might take your head too, and your name won’t protect you. I don’t think that I could, either.” She pauses, idly flicking through the pages without really looking. “But you’re right that something doesn’t add up, and it worries me too.” She chews on her lips for a moment, then deposits the book on the covers in front of him. “You can read it here if you want. I don’t think she’d punish me as harshly.”

Claude looks up at her, fingertip idly tracing the embossed lettering on the cover. “Thank you,” he says. Then he continues with: “You’re afraid of her.”

Byleth glances at the door, shoulders pulled up tight. Uneasy.

“I’m wary. And you should be too,” she says. “We’re both in her power.”

Claude’s smile turns wry. She’s right, of course, but it’s hardly a new insight for him. He’s spent his entire life living in the shadows of people who would kill him if he played his cards wrong, and at least Rhea isn’t actively out to get him.

But Byleth hasn’t lived in those shadows, has she? She’s not used to the danger following her home from the battlefield.

“Teach,” he says, lifting her hands from the sheets and holding them in his, rubbing his thumbs over the hollows of her palms. “I’m touched. Really. I am. It’s been a while since anyone cared what happens to me. Thank you.” She nods, gently pulling her hands free. “But listen to me. I know how to play this game. I’m good at it. If it comes to that, I will weep and grovel at Rhea’s feet and she so badly wants to think that she’s kind and merciful that she’ll let me off with a warning.”

Byleth huffs.

“She’ll have Catherine cut off your head.”

“Ahah.” Claude brandishes a finger. “You underestimate my groveling.” Her lips curl in what looks like an involuntary smile, and Claude smiles back. “Trust me,” he says, softer. “Like I trust you on the battlefield.” He hesitates for a second, then lets his smile and shoulders drop. He’s tired, and it’s okay if she knows it. “I’ve been doing this for as long as you’ve been fighting.”

Byleth looks at him with concern, before something makes her cock her head curiously.

“Groveling?” she asks, and it startles a laugh out of him.

“Not _only,_ ” he snickers. “Figuring people out. Finding leverage, soft spots.” He bites at his bottom lip, and notices her eyes track the flash of his teeth. “Getting what I want from them.”

Byleth looks at him, large dark eyes observing him calmly.

“Are you doing it to me?”

“Weeell…” Claude shrugs a little and holds up the book in answer. Byleth watches silently. “Here, let me make it up to you,” he says, and reaches into a pocket to produce a thicker tome, this one bound in red leather. “The rest of the spoils from mine and Lin’s little adventure.”

Byleth blinks at the book, then at him. He fails to suppress the grin spreading over his face.

“You were so distracted from getting that book off me that you never checked my pant pockets. So,” he says, grin turning insufferable as he folds his hands behind his neck and dropps back to lean against her headboard. “That’s the second time sticking something down my pants has worked today.”

Byleth glares at him for a few seconds before she huffs one single snort of amusement before picking the book up.

“The Annotated Minutes of the Council of Bishops, 452-457… What.” She opens it and skims several pages. “Did you seriously steal records of budget meetings from seven hundred years ago?”

“Not only budgets, there’s lots fun stuff in there,” Claude says, rolling upright again. “But for the really juicy parts, I suspect you can skip to Pegasus Moon of 456.”

Byleth flicks through the book and raises an eyebrow.

“You wanted to know if children born on a leap day have souls.”

“What? Let me… Here. Have you heard about the Toutatis uprising?”

Byleth considers and shakes her head.

“Well, you have now, because I blamed a class assignment when I asked Tomas about it. And then a few hours later all these boring old books that nobody ever looked at were gone from the shelves. Kinda makes you curious, doesn’t it?” he says, eyebrows arched. “Anyway, from what I’ve pieced together. In late 455, a ‘false prophet’,” he pauses to make rabbit ears with his fingers, “showed up in the mountains of what is now western Faerghus. She claimed to be Seiros reborn, made up horrible horrible lies about the will of the Goddess being something different from Central Church policy, got a ton of followers amongst the locals, and then the Knights of Seiros showed up and murdered everybody.”

Byleth looks disturbed but not surprised.

“Teach?” He waits until she looks up to meet his eyes. “They locked people in barns and set fire to them.”

Now she looks ill. Progress.

“And Seteth doesn’t want people to know about that.”

Claude makes a face. It’s horrifying, but it’s also seven hundred years ago.

“I think Seteth particularly doesn’t want people to know that it was the much revered Immaculate One who started the fires.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post this HOURS ago but I got stuck in a loop of reading about pre-modern contraceptives. Now it's 5:30, whoops. 
> 
> I love Hilda. I love everyone who comments almost as much, which is really saying something.


	3. The cardshark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes do not go on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you judge By on her complete lack of teacher professionalism, keep in mind that her main source on Appropriate Teacher Behavior is Claude and he is a terrible influence.

Claude stays for the rest of the afternoon, sitting reading on her bed while she goes over her progress notes and prepares tomorrow's lecture. His presence is restful, somehow: he's demanding nothing from her, just quietly existing in the same space, with no expectation that she engage with him or find something to talk about. She is content. Sothis feels content, too, though occasionally pestering her with questions until she turns around to let the girl look at their companion. When Claude notices, he smiles that same enigmatic, slightly teasing smile that she's come to expect him to direct at her. When he doesn't, his face is as blank and empty as her own. 

He goes over his findings over a late dinner, the two of them tucked away in a corner of the dining hall with some long-cooled leftovers that Claude sweet-talked the staff into parting with despite the kitchen being closed by the time they remembered about eating. The Immaculate One is clouded in mystery. The Church was pulling the political strings. Claude has fixated on one of the fifth century bishops, but becomes increasingly vague when she tries to figure out why. 

He knocks on her door after dinner the next night, a book he promises he obtained lawfully tucked under his arm. When he leaves at bedtime, he has somehow managed to make a pile of three books sprawl in a messy heap that takes up far more space than the volume of the books themselves can possibly justify. She shakes her head at him and tucks them away in her bedside drawer. Better to keep them out of sight, anyway, rather than scattered on the floor where they can easily be seen from the landing. 

The bed is still warm from him when she lies down in it. 

The drawer fills up as Claude becomes somewhat of a fixture in her room, reading quietly at the foot of her bed while she works at the desk. He's long since finished his stolen books, yet keeps coming back several times a week with new ones. Byleth privately doubts that Seteth has any strong opinions on the material in _A Mycological Review of Adrestia_ and is unlikely to confiscate it, but she finds herself reluctant to bring the matter up. And now and then Claude does track some historical account down that seems so specific she can't imagine that even he would read it for pleasure, so while she's not certain what, she is certain that he is still on to something. She figures that as long as he's with her he's not getting himself excommunicated or worse. 

It's on one of those nights he does not spend in her room that she spots him at a card table in one of the seedier taverns of the town. She watches the game surreptitiously for a while, sipping her beer and considering the players. Claude is dressed down in worn homespun, his braid tucked up under a cap that covers most of his hair. The golden earring is nowhere to be seen. He looks enough like a farmhand that she thinks she wouldn't look twice at him if she didn't know him. 

The men sharing his table are older, bigger, and looking at him like he's a particularly stupid fawn that has wandered straight into their den of wolves. One of them has busted his knuckles open sometime in the past few days, and judging by his easy movement and unbruised face it was not in a well-matched fight. She watches Claude stretch and rub the back of his neck, and though it's probably invisible from the table she catches a glimpse of a card being pulled from his collar. 

For fuck's sake. 

They'll leave him as a wet stain on the tavern floor if they catch him cheating. 

She needs to intervene. 

Green eyes lock on hers with some alarm as she saunters over and leans her forearms on the back of his chair. Claude flicks his hand closed and hides the cards against his chest. "Come to the bar with me," she whispers in his ear, the tips of her fingers ghosting up the side of his neck. One of the men wolf-whistles, and she smiles at him, turning her sugary-sweet look on Claude. "Or I'll tell them exactly where you hid that card." 

She's close enough to see the pink tinging his cheeks, but the lascivious look he rakes over her body as he turns to look over his shoulder is well executed. 

"Gentlemen," he says to her chest. "Please excuse me." 

The table erupts into laughter as he collects his belongings and follows her, one of the players hooting after them. 

"I take it you'll be buying me lunch the coming week, then?" he says, leaning back on the nicked wooden slab that separates the matron from the patrons. "Because I was just done gaining their trust, which means I'm down…" He counts on his fingers. "All of my money." 

Byleth lifts an eyebrow. 

"Then what were you going to bet?" 

Claude grins and pulls a chain out from around his neck, discreetly showing her a ring with a pretty green gemstone flashing in it. 

"The only thing I have left of my mother," he says, laying it on so thick she fails to suppress a snort. "She was born a noble, you know," he continues, tucking the ring back inside his shirt, "but she fell in love with the wrong man…" 

He pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. 

"Works every time. Really, Teach, I've been building a reputation as a compulsive gambler for weeks and when I'm finally ready to flip it around on them, you show up." He regards her, smug little grin playing on his lips. "Why? Miss me?" 

"I just wanted a drink." True to her word, she gestures to the barmaid for two fresh tankards of beer, as Claude leans on his elbows and hisses " _Here?_ " in her ear. 

"Don't be a snob," she chides him gently, passing a tankard to him and taking a long sip from her own. "I grew up in places like this. It's homey." 

"Huh." He wets his lips on the brew, licking them curiously. His nose scrunches up, and Byleth's lips with it. 

"Not a big beer drinker?" 

"Believe it or not, it's my first time actually tasting the stuff." 

Byleth takes a long draw of hers before surreptitiously switching their tankards. 

"Don't let that get around in a place like this," she says quietly. "Or you'll give your disguise away in a heartbeat." 

Claude frowns at the beer and takes a brave swallow, keeping his face neutral but his eyes flashing her such distress and betrayal that she can't help but laugh. 

"It's an acquired taste," she says, swirling the beer in her tankard and sniffing it like a fine wine. 

"You're trying to poison me, aren't you," he says. "I'm _wounded_ , Teach. I trusted you." He sniffs sadly, then grins with all his usual unchecked glee. "That or you're trying to get me drunk. Which is _way_ inappropriate, you should be ashamed of yourself." He takes another careful sip. "Gods, this is terrible." 

Byleth shakes her head, unable to stop smiling. He has that effect on her, she's noticed. A lifetime of having to remember to make the correct facial expressions or make people uncomfortable, and with Claude, her face just seems to make them on its own. Makes them a little too eagerly, sometimes. 

He scoots closer. 

"See those two who just walked in?" he asks under his breath, cringing when she turns to look. Somebody she doesn't recognize raises their hand in an uncertain greeting, and Byleth considers her for a moment. She has no memory of this person. 

She turns back to find Claude giving her a tolerant look over the rim of his tankard. 

"Subtle. I'm guessing subterfuge wasn't a mainstay of your mercenary work?" 

"Should I know them?" 

"They work in the monastery stables. Now, if I can _discreetly_ direct your attention to the gentleman throwing knives in the corner?" Byleth finds the man out of the corner of her eye and nods slightly. "Knight of Seiros. Guy in the green shirt at my table? Guardsman, usually posted in the marketplace." 

Byleth nods. 

"What about them?" 

"They don't recognize me. I've literally played cards with that guy for hours and gotten 'your lordship'-ed the next day, and trust me: he is not that good an actor." He raises his eyebrows, eyes twinkling with amusement as they scan her face. "Bet he recognized you, though. I'm looking forward to some interesting gossip in the morning." 

Byleth shrugs, drinking deep. Claude rests his elbows on the bar, his chin propped up on his hands as he looks at her. 

"It doesn't bother you?" 

"I was a mercenary for many years. People have said all kinds of things about me." She shrugs. "If they care about me picking up some farmboy at a tavern… Let them talk." 

"Ah," Claude says, lips twisting into a grin. "But what if it's not just any farmboy?" He holds his hands up, framing an imaginary scene for her. "Picture the _scandal_. The newest professor of the continent's most prestigious academic institution caught propositioning destitute young men \- all because they remind her of her favorite student." 

"Hm?" Byleth answers, having to suppress the grin trying to take control of her lips. "But you look nothing like Lysithea." 

Claude laughs out loud, and her smile breaks free at the sound. She wants more of it. 

"Ooh no," he says, pointing a finger at her. "That's a lie. I can tell. I _know_ I'm your favorite." 

Byleth drains the last of her tankard. 

"Well. Don't tell the others," she says, offering her arm. "Shall we?" 

* * *

"So tell me," she says as they stroll through the evening streets, dry leaves crinkling under their feet as they take a slow and meandering path back to the monastery. "What is the heir to House Riegan doing in a seedy tavern, scamming guardsmen at cards?" 

Claude shrugs. 

"Gotta make a living somehow." 

"Your family is… what, second richest in Fódlan?" 

" _Not so loud,_ _"_ he hisses, glancing around. _"_ Third, I think, depending on how you count. The Empire's wealth is _formally_ the Emperor's personal property, but he hasn't had any real influence in decades. Aegir supposedly knows how to help himself, so he's probably got more to actually throw around," he says, ticking families off on his fingers. "Edmund changed his tolls on river trade a couple years ago and has been raking in profit, so assuming he took all the trade that Derdriu lost then his coffers can probably match ours by now," he says, his hands moving quickly as he speaks, "But while he was, I dunno, sitting on his pile of gold, re-twirling his mustache, his roads went from bad to _horrible_ -" he makes a disgusted face, shuddering theatrically. "I was up there last year and I nearly got stuck in the mud, I thought Judith was going to leave me to starve for sure - And on top of that, the river flooded this spring so that hardly helped matters. So I'd say that right now, he has more cash than we do, but on the other hand we have functioning infrastructure, so I kinda like our chances in the long term." 

He looks to her as if asking for confirmation, and Byleth smiles. 

"Go on," she says, because she can almost see the words piling up behind his closed lips. 

"Right. Then there's the Church, which doesn't report either income or expenses but apparently just _throws_ its accounting records out in the _garbage_ so- are you laughing at me?" 

"I'm not," Byleth claims despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, overcome with fondness for this strange young lordling and the image of him digging through Seteth's trash. "What about the kingdom?" 

Claude makes a face, scratching at his chin. 

"We kinda fucked the Kingdom when we seceded with all the arable land. They have an outright famine like every ten years, so that puts a damper on things." 

"I see," Byleth says. "And yet, Dimitri seems to make ends meet without conning the locals." 

Claude winks. 

"Maybe you just haven't caught him at it yet," he suggests, then bursts out laughing at whatever expression of extreme doubt her face seems set to arrange itself in. "Fine. Fine. Dimitri gets an allowance, though." 

"You don't?" Byleth blinks, turning to look at him fully. "Claude, are you paying your tuition with your gambling wins?" 

He shoots her a smug look for a second, then chuckles when she just stares. 

"Nah." His hand finds her elbow and he nudges her to keep walking. "The old man pays for my education, don't worry. I'm sure he'd send me some spending money if I asked for it, but I get by fine on my own." 

Byleth plants her feet and pivots him around to face her. 

"That's not right," she says, frowning. "Those are ordinary people you're tricking. They don't have any noble grandfathers to fall back on." 

"Please, Teach," he says, rolling his eyes. "I'm taking them for lunch money, not their lives' savings." 

Byleth's eyes narrow. She'd seen the pile of coins on that table. 

"Claude," she says slowly. "How much is a lunch to you?" 

"I dunno?" He shrugs. "Fifty gold?" 

"That's what someone dressed like you makes in a _week_." 

"Seriously?" Claude tilts his head, properly looking at her now, exasperation replaced with calculation. "That's… not a lot of money to live on." 

"It isn't. My father pays his crew a thousand gold a month. That's considered good pay, even for an elite mercenary." 

"Hmm." He chews on his bottom lip, then raises a finger. "In my defense, the people I was playing thought they were taking _me_ for far more than I could afford." 

Byleth raises her eyebrows. 

"'Ordinary' doesn't mean 'good'." 

"Point taken," he says, extricating his wrist from her grip and threading his arm back through hers. "Okay. I'll just sucker Lorenz for the next five months, then. He can afford it." 

Byleth chuckles. 

"He's going to sic the Guard on you. The Knights, if he can manage." 

"No no, I'll make sure it's embarrassing enough he keeps it under wraps… Though ideally he won't even know he's been ripped off…" He rubs his chin with his free hand, brow furrowed. "Yeah, I've got a plan. You want in, Teach? It'll be fun. We'll _bond_." 

"I'm not _helping you_ to _con_ another student, Claude!" She tries and fails to keep a stern expression, and Claude's eyes glitter merrily at her. "I should… Give you detention or something. Is there detention?" 

"Eh," he says, free hand waving the threat off. "I'm sure I can swindle him from there too, so whatever. Although…" 

"Hm?" 

"It _will_ be a valuable lesson for him, so I think it's well within your role as a teacher." 

" _No_. Just don't… poison him or anything." 

Claude nods solemnly. 

"I swear no harm will come to anything but his pride," he says, holding out a hand with the little finger extended. "Which, between you and me, he has more than enough of and it could stand to take a hit." Byleth nods, looking curiously at his hand. "It's a pinkie promise," he says. "You never pinkie promised?" 

She shakes her head, tilting it to regard his hand. 

"My father says a man's word is worthless until it's on paper," she says. 

"Good policy in his line of work, I imagine," Claude says, reaching for her hand and forming her own pinkie into a little hook. "This is… a little less legally binding, perhaps, but _sacred_. Bound in the sanctity of friendship," he says, wiggling his extended finger. "Soo…" 

Byleth gamely hooks her pinkie around his and squishes. 

"Like so?" 

"Yeah." His lips tuck up into a little fishhook-shaped smile, that calculating edge she's used to seeing in his eyes momentarily absent. "I won't poison Lorenz. Promise." 

She smiles at him and impulsively bumps her shoulder against his arm, and when he bumps her back she feels something fluttery and eager stir in her stomach. She wonders if she's eaten something bad, but the sensation is strangely pleasant. Claude's fingers feel warm through her sleeve where they're hooked around her bicep. 

"Hold on," he says when they near the gates to the monastery. "I can't be seen like this." He ducks into an alley and scrambles over a few barrels, crouching down to rummage behind them. When he stands up, he's pulling his uniform jacket out of a sack. "There," he says, jacket shrugged on and straightened, cap hidden away and hair freshly tousled. "How do I look?" 

"Almost respectable." 

" _Almost?_ " 

"Mm," she shrugs, grinning slowly. "No less than you did in class today." 

"I- I'm not sure if you're insulting me _now_ or me earlier?" 

Byleth taps her chin in mock thought, sauntering toward the gates. 

"Could be both," she says, offering her arm as Claude catches up. "I'm efficient." 

"I don't want to seem like I'm complaining or anything, but you _do_ know that you're teaching class in booty shorts, right?" 

Byleth cracks her neck. 

"They have good range of motion." 

"Oh yeah, for that strenuous… blackboard writing." 

She catches his eye, nodding serenely. 

"Thought now that I think about it," he continues, tapping at his chin in thought, "Professor Manuela also has a certain _flair_ , yeah? It's Hanneman that stands out. Maybe you two could take him shopping some day?" 

Byleth bursts out laughing, covering her chuckles with a hand as a monastery guard looks their way. Claude watches her out of the corners of his eyes, radiating smugness. 

"So," he says as they stroll past the greenhouse. "Here's my stop." He ducks his head, and she has a hard time telling if he's playing with her or if he's genuinely bashful. "Unless you wanna walk me to my door?" 

"I'll trust you to get through the hallway without committing any felonies." 

"I make no promises," he says with a wink. "Listen… This wasn't the night I planned for, but I had fun. Here." He reaches inside his collar and materializes a playing card from somewhere, holding it out to her. "To remember it by." 

"The eight of clubs," Byleth says, turning the card over. Nope, nothing on the back side to explain why he's giving it to her either. "Thank you. I will put it on my wall." 

Claude snickers. 

"Well," he says turning around and starting up the stairs. He flicks his wrist and another card is suddenly in his fingers. He smirks at her over his shoulder and flashes her the Queen of Hearts. "Giving you this would be quite inappropriate, wouldn't it?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys leave such fantastic comments <3
> 
> Please keep them coming, I hunger for your thoughts


	4. The songstress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude _does_ go on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a chapter almost ready to drop last Friday when I finally admitted to myself that there were yet unwritten scenes that need to happen before that or they won't make sense. This is apparently what happens when you try to not write everything in order, which is my natural instinct (another thing that happens is that you write a _lot_ , apparently. The draft I have is already a fair bit longer than anything I've written before, and there are entire parts I haven't gotten started on. Neat.)
> 
> And I _do_ like Lorenz, I do. His arc is one of my favorites. This is just.... Before most of that, where he is insufferable.

It's the Sunday after the whole Remire disaster, and Claude finally feels like himself again. He's slumped in a chair in the dining hall, idly watching the comings and goings of the people of Garreg Mach while he waits for the kitchen staff to finish turning the pheasant they killed into a meal. 

"You kept up better than I expected," Leonie says, plonking two tall cups of the watered-down ale the monastery favors onto the table. The ale sloshes, a little of it spilling. Leonie doesn't seem to notice. "On me," she says, chuckling. "You earned it with that mad dash into the brambles." 

"Thanks," he says, mentally lamenting this fascination the Fódlanders seem to share for fermented gruel. He pulls himself upright and raises the glass in a toast, grinning at his companion. "To the stubborn old rooster who led me in there. He was a fighter." 

"That he was," Leonie agrees, draining half her glass in one swallow. Claude swallows his misgivings and enough of a mouthful that he's not sitting there with a conspicuously full glass. It's not as bad as the stuff Byleth tried to ply him with a couple weeks ago - there's some kind of herbal taste in it that makes it seem more like a beverage and less like the most direct route to poor life choices. Or perhaps he's just feeling unusually charitable, his entire being warm and content to be back inside after a tiring hunt in the frost-bitten dawn. 

They chat while they wait, about archery practice and cavalry formations, about how you can attach apple branches to completely different trees and they'll grow there and how weird that is, about the upcoming ball and how unfair it is that they _have_ to dress up, and that might be fine for him with all his noble riches but where the hell is Leonie supposed to get a dress? The uniform alone was an expense she hadn't budgeted for, she tells him. Does he know what the jacket even costs? 

He doesn't, he admits. His tailor back in Derdriu had prior experience designing officer's academy ensembles for her clients, so he'd just left it to her expertise. Leonie gives him an ugly look when she asks what that bill landed on and he has to own up to having no idea. 

Their food arrives to punctuate the awkward silence, and Leonie sighs, drizzling sauce over her pheasant. 

"I suppose you could be worse," she says, chewing thoughtfully. "Just… When you're duke," she starts, then glances over her shoulder. "Speaking of worse," she says, turning back to grab her ale before twisting around halfway. "This ought to be good." 

In front of the counters separating kitchen from dining area, Dorothea lays into Lorenz, her eyes flashing with fury. Claude has to really concentrate to pick out their voices over the drone of conversation and clatter of cutlery, though it gets easier as more diners notice the altercation and quiet down to listen. Lorenz gives his usual spiel about nobility this nobility that, clearly on the defensive, and Dorothea bears down on him like an avenging angel. 

Half of Fódlan knows her story. The homeless girl with the voice of an angel, rising to be the star of the Empire's most celebrated opera company. It's funny how those stories make her out like some random recipient of good fortune, when it should be obvious to anyone with eyes that she carved her path herself. Lorenz is more of a fool than he thought if he thinks this woman is unqualified to be a countess. 

"Why is he like that?" Leonie mutters under her breath. Claude isn't sure if it was meant as a question to him or to the heavens, but he answers anyway. 

"His father's a real piece of work," he supplies. "Your village is in their territory, isn't it? What's he like as a lord?" 

Leonie glances over, shrugs. 

"Lord's a lord, isn't he? Only thing we ever see of him is the tax collectors." Her eyes tighten. "Perhaps if both your families didn't waste so much money on petty squabbling with each other, they wouldn't come as often." 

Claude bites his lip, unsure what to say to that. Perhaps he'd better not say anything at all, just sit there and look appropriately repentant. 

Leonie huffs a breath through her nose. 

"Well, perhaps you two will be different," she says, indicating Lorenz with a nod. Claude catches Dorothea dismissing him, turning her back and walking away with all the poise of a queen in her throne room or a diva on her stage. "At least try for us common people's sakes, will you?" 

He nods, thinking. If he plays his cards right, he's hoping to have one of those common people right there at his side. And knowing Teach, she'd toss him in a swamp if he got too full of himself. 

"Something you'd like to say?" Dorothea asks in a clipped tone, pausing her regal departure next to Leonie's chair. Cold fire still burns in her eyes. 

"Well done," Leonie says, miming applause with a grin. "Buy you a beer sometime?" 

Dorothea's mouth curls into a pleased smile. 

"Make it a glass of wine and I'd love to." She looks to Claude, smiling prettily but her eyes glinting in challenge. "And you?" She pauses just long enough to make her question a challenge. "Your Grace-to-be?" 

Claude grins. Oh, he likes her. 

"Could I interest you in letting me treat you to a very platonic, yet very date-like, dinner?" He pauses, gauging her reaction. Interest piqued, but cautious. He smiles his most wicked smile. "Lorenz would hate it." 

Dorothea laughs, bright and clear. 

"I suppose he would." She taps her chin in thought, then nods. "I pick the restaurant." 

"Anyone you'd like. Saturday?" 

"Hmm…" She considers. "Yes. Let's put the fear of Duchess Dorothea in him, shall we?" 

* * *

Dorothea choses a place that is so fancy Claude has to use his full name to get a table. Once he enters it, Dorothea dressed to the nines on his arm, he can't help but be a little impressed. There are only a handful of tables and looking closely he can tell gold paint from real gilding, but in beauty alone he thinks it can match both the great hall in Derdriu and the intricately decorated chambers of his childhood home. 

"My my," Dorothea says, once they're seated in a cozy nook in the corner. "You got us a private table. Perhaps tonight is not so platonic after all." 

Claude flushes a little, though he thinks the dim light helps disguise it. He hadn't asked for it, wasn't even aware it was something to aspire to. 

"I'm teasing," she says, smiling indulgently. "That was a very nice birthday gift you got for Lin, by the way." 

Claude raises his eyebrows, smiling crookedly. 

"I didn't think you'd be very interested in eight century crest statistics." 

"Oh heavens, no. But Lin was over the moon, it was adorable. He was so excited that Caspar wanted to read it too, but he got bored half a page in." 

Claude chuckles. 

"I figured he would enjoy it, yeah." 

"Did he thank you properly?" she asks, eyes sparkling with mischief. 

"Uhm." No amount of dim light can hide his blush now. Linhardt had, in fact, thanked him with uncharacteristic vigor, picking up where they had left off when Seteth caught them in the stacks. Claude didn't think anyone else knew about that, though. Linhardt had helpfully healed all the little marks left on his neck before he left Claude's room. "Yes..?" 

"Aww, you look like a startled little deer," Dorothea coos, reaching out to boop his nose. "I already got him to spill. But don't worry, I can keep a secret." She cocks an elegant eyebrow. "Perhaps we can even work out an arrangement that works for all three of us." 

"Uh," Claude repeats. This conversation is getting away from him. He's supposed to be silver-tongued, he reminds himself. "I don't think either me or Lin is expecting this to be a long-term thing." 

Dorothea rests her chin in a hand, tilting her head to gaze at him. 

"Pity," she says. "You'd be cute together." 

"Yeah, well. Even if I did get away with hitching myself to a guy, I have to go back to Derdriu and I don't think he'd particularly enjoy it there." 

"Really?" A waiter arrives with their wine and some small crispy things Claude has no idea what they are. He lets Dorothea order for him, since she apparently knows her way around the menu. He himself has never had to do anything to be fed except mind his manners and be discreetly instructed by his grandfather's steward whenever something he might be unfamiliar with how to eat is served. "So why wouldn't Lin like Derdriu? I haven't been, but I've heard it's lovely." 

Claude snorts. 

"The city, sure. But being with me also means having to deal with the Roundtable, and he'd hate that." Claude smiles, all sharp edges. "Vipers, every one of us." 

Dorothea slowly swirls her wineglass, admiring the color or perhaps just choosing not to look at him. Then she smiles, looking up at him through long eyelashes. 

"I think I'd manage well enough," she says with a sly smile, and Claude grins, impressed. He can be bold, but she's bolder. 

"Are you suggesting yourself as my consort?" he asks, leaning forward on his elbows. He has other plans she can't know about, but the suggestion still intrigues him. He wonders if this is her own ambition speaking, or if Hubert somehow secured her loyalty and is trying to sneak a spy into his household. His pulse quickens. 

She could be a useful ally, if he could be sure of her. 

"Welllll…" she says, dragging her fingertip around the rim of her glass. "I imagine it would cause a bit of a stir if you were to marry Linhardt, yes. Or any other man. So perhaps," she says, pausing to drink a sip of her wine. "It would be more convenient for you to have a wife who understood your inclinations, and who would be perfectly happy to share her home with the companion of your choice." She holds his eyes for a long moment, tension thick between them. Claude thinks she's enjoying this negotiation just as much as he is. 

She breaks their eyelock with a slight toss of her hair. "I'm sure we could find a way to have children that's agreeable to both of us." 

The waiters arrive with their first dish, giving Claude plenty of time to savor the intrigue. 

"I like you," he opens, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on them. "And your proposal is certainly interesting. However, I should probably tell you that I'm not actually gay." 

Dorothea plants her elbow on the table , dropping her chin onto her knuckles. 

"Sure you're not," she says, without an ounce of conviction. 

Claude waves his hands in agreement. 

"Oh, I'm not denying I like guys. Or that Lin and I had - have? - a fling. But I'm not, like. _Only_ into guys." 

Dorothea blinks at him for a second, then hides her face in her hands. For a moment, Claude is afraid she's crying, but then her trembling turns into barely suppressed laughter. 

"I feel very foolish now," she giggles. "I don't know why I assumed-" 

"Ah, don't worry about it-" 

"No, I." She peeks at him from between her fingers. Her cheeks are very red, and bunched up into perfect circles by her smile. "I'm the same. That's why it's so silly." 

Claude snickers, shaking his head. 

"Wow. You know, if I _were_ gay, I'd have been very tempted. And hey, I could still fall desperately in love with a guy." He takes a bite of the food to defuse the situation, and his eyes nearly rolls into the back of his head as the flavor takes him unprepared. "Oh my stars, you've got to try this." He shoves another forkful into his mouth, moaning softly as it melts over his tongue. "Gods, keep taking me to restaurants like this and I'll marry you for that alone." 

Dorothea chuckles, chewing with somewhat more restrained relish. 

"Be careful or I might take you up on that. It sounds like a pretty good deal from my end." She sighs wistfully, shaking her head. "And here I thought you were the ideal husband." 

Claude squints at her. 

"Your ideal husband is gay?" 

"Gay and _fabulously_ wealthy," she says on a laugh, then sobers. "You know, men are pigs when you're dependent on them to eat. You got lucky." She sighs again, washing the bitterness down with wine. "So lucky. Both a crest and a dick." 

Claude swallows, picking up his wine glass to stare into the pale liquid. They could have just as easily poisoned his food, he reminds himself. 

"Didn't feel that lucky a lot of the time," he mutters, tipping a little bit of the wine into his mouth. Habit makes him search the flavors for any hint of danger. 

Dorothea regards him thoughtfully. 

"You weren't brought into House Riegan until a few years ago, were you?" 

"That's right." 

"Why?" she asks, honest curiosity on her face. 

Claude looks up. A lot of people have asked where he was before, who his parents are, how much blood he really shares with the Riegans. Those who knew his mother well enough to see her echoed in him have demanded to know where she is. 

He doesn't think anyone has ever asked him why before. 

"Because the last duke died?" he offers. "And his father was old?" 

"No no," she says. "Why didn't they want you when you were born? You have a crest, and the palace clearly wasn't overflowing with other heirs." 

"Well… My mother didn't offer me." 

"Oh." She swirls her wine for a moment, lost in the play of candlelight. "Perhaps I'm projecting too much." She considers him for a moment. "I know you can't answer this," she says on a sigh. "But let me tell you my story." 

Claude nods, and Dorothea frowns at her empty plate for a moment, before decisively downing the remainder of her glass. 

"My mother was a chamber maid," she says, resting the glass against her lower lip. "My father is a noble. When I was born crestless, he had no further use for either of us. And I thought, perhaps," she says, taking a delicate sip, "that my life would have been more like yours if I'd been different." 

Claude bites his lip. He's heard of similar situations, enough of them that it can almost be called a practice, but having it have happened to someone he knows is still disturbing, particularly when he has some idea of how Dorothea spent the next several years. 

"Do you know who he is?" he asks, voice low. 

"Oh, yes, but that hardly matters now." 

Claude smiles coldly. 

"It does if he ever needs anything from the Roundtable." 

"Oh." She smiles, meanly, and gives him a name. It's not one of the big players that he already knows, but he tucks it away safe in his mind. "Thank you." 

The staff bring the main course over, Claude 'ooh'-ing over the little silver cart it's brought in on. 

"You know," Dorothea says, "you're not quite like any other noble I've met." 

"Yeah, well…" he says, tasting the dish. "Wow. This is great. Anyway. Crest or not, your life wouldn't have been very much like mine." Half his parentage is an open secret in the Alliance as is. The knowledge will filter its way to the Empire soon enough no matter what he does. "My mother was born a Riegan. She left to marry a man my grandfather didn't approve of, and." He shrugs. "Here I am. Pardoned back into the family because there was no one else to continue the bloodline." 

"Was he a noble?" she asks, and Claude shakes his head. 

"Nope," he says, popping the p. It's not technically a lie. 

They finish eating to lighter conversation, and it's not until after dessert is served that Claude looks up from his meringue… thing to find Dorothea looking at him with a knowing smile. 

"…what?" 

"You know, I can tell when a man isn't attracted to me," she says, licking her spoon suggestively. "And at the risk of sounding a bit conceited: If you're not gay, I see only one other explanation." 

Claude looks at her through eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

"Which is..?" 

"You," she says, pointing at him with the spoon, "are in love with someone else." 

Claude blinks, floundering for a moment before collecting himself and leaning back in his chair with a wide smirk. 

"You see right through me," he drawls. "I'm sorry, it was callous of me to use you like this to make him jealous. I hope the dinner can make up for it." He inspects his nails, then buffs them on his jacket. "But if Lorenz thinks he's got a rival for my affections I figure he might finally act on this _thing_ that's been budding between us for _months_ , and -" 

Dorothea's mouth falls open. Her eyes are wide as saucers. 

Claude's composure creaks under the strain, then shatters. 

" _Ohgods_ ", he wheezes, snickering into his fist. " _Thelookonyourface!_ " 

"You're kidding," she says. She sounds like she's trying to convince herself. Then she starts to giggle, cupping her hands in front of her face. "You're kidding. Goddess, I thought… Nevermind. Haha, that would certainly upstage those rumors about you and Professor Byleth." 

Claude thinks he has a pretty good grasp of his tells and how to suppress them. Unfortunately, Dorothea is looking right at him when his eyelids twitch in surprise, and she's turned out to be impressively alert for a woman who's downed half a bottle of wine. 

She blinks. 

"Oh," she says. Claude feels his traitorous blush trickling back into his cheeks, sealing his fate. "Heavens. It's true." 

"No, no," he says, trying a disarming little laugh that sounds shrill and fake even to his own ears. "We're just spending a lot of time together working on tactics for the Deer. Make sure they're sharp, you know, what with," he gestures. "Everything." 

"Uhu," she says. "Drop it, you're red as a tomato." Her head ticks to the side as a thought strikes her. "Does she know you're here? With me?" 

Claude swallows down the impulse to sulk. 

"I don't think so?" he says. "Why would she?" 

Dorothea's eyebrow draw down in a frown. 

"I thought you were supposed to be _intelligent_ ," she scolds. "You can't ask another woman to dinner and not _tell your girlfriend._ She's going to think you're cheating - if you _were_ planning to cheat I'll-" 

"No!" Claude cuts her off before she tries to castrate him with a dessert spoon. "I _did_ ask you out to annoy Lorenz! Not," he says, raising a hand to stave off any further questions, "to make him jealous, at least not because he's into _me_ , just because he's fun to mess with." He meets Dorothea's eyes, face perfectly calm. "And she's not my girlfriend." 

Dorothea, alas, is not fooled. 

"But you'd like her to be," she says, smirking. "Seriously though. You have to tell her this isn't really a date before she hears rumors." 

"Why would she care if-" 

"I swear, _men_. If you _want_ something to happen between you, how about you start by not letting her think you're dating someone else!" 

Claude flushes. He pokes at the remains of his meringue. 

"I suppose," he says. "Okay." 

"Good." Dorothea smiles, frown melting as giddiness washes over her face. "Oh, you're going to be the _cutest_ couple. I can't _wait_ to see Lorenz face when he finds out you're marrying _her_ \- don't get me wrong, she's amazing, but she's perhaps not _the_ best versed in, oh, flower arrangement and embroidery and such." Her lips twitch, smug. "You know, those essential life skills for a lady wife." 

Claude chuckles. 

"I think you're getting just a _little_ bit ahead of yourself here." He raises an eyebrow, grin crooked. "And for what it's worth, my mother cannot embroider _for shit_." His other eyebrow joins its twin as he considers. "Though she can pound a man's skull in with ease. You know how a lot of people end up kinda copying their parents? I think it's possible that Lorenz and I picked up slightly different ideas about the ideal spouse from home." 

"Let's hope I picked up absolutely nothing," Dorothea says, making a face. 

"Sorry, I didn't mean…" 

"Don't worry about it. Shall we go? I believe you have a professor to woo." 

* * *

Claude does not go to 'woo' Byleth that night, because he can't for the life of him think of a way to show up on her doorstep late at night and tell her he's not dating Dorothea without looking like an absolute idiot. An arrogant idiot, who thinks the most unflappable person he's ever met is sitting up agonizing over whom he's eating dinner with when she could be… Fishing, maybe. Night fishing is a thing, he thinks. 

Instead he's getting ready for bed when there's a soft knock on his door. 

"It's open," he calls, and Hilda lets herself in, the long skirt of her nightgown swishing around her feet where it extends beneath the hem of her robe. 

"Sheesh, what a night," she says, stretching her dressing gowned arms above her head. "I'm exhausted. Did you have fun with Dorothea?" 

"Yeah, she's cool. Do you think we can convince her to ditch those stuffy imperials for us?" 

"Hmm, if you can get the Professor on board I don't see why not…" She weighs back and forth on her feet for a few seconds. "My date was a disaster, by the way. I know you were just about to ask." 

"Why, what happened?" 

"Eh. Nothing. It was just- awkward." She weighs back and forth on her feet while Claude waits. "Hey, wanna make out?" 

"Hilda, are you alright?" 

"Sure." She shrugs. "Why wouldn't I be?" 

Claude crooks an eyebrow. 

"Because you broke up with me because you weren't that into me, so why do you want to make out now?" 

"Fine," she sighs, flopping down in his desk chair, folding her arms over the back and resting her cheek on them. "I just. He kissed me and I feel _weird_." She holds up her hands, stopping any questions. "Don't go all big-brother on me. I'm fine, he didn't do anything I didn't encourage." 

She sighs deeply, resting her forehead on the backrest. 

"I just - what's wrong with me? He's nice enough. Good looking, too." She looks up, pouting. "Why don't I like him, Claude?" 

"I dunno. Because you're trying way too hard?" 

Hilda rocks on the chair. 

"But what else am I supposed to do," she whines. "We graduate in three months and I never meet _anyone_ at home. I don't want to sit there and grow old and alone." 

"You can visit me. You wanted to see Derdriu anyway." 

"I dooo," Hilda says, rising to her feet and walking into him to lean on his chest. "I want to go to the markets. Why is your domain so _cool_? Nothing ever happens in Goneril." 

"You have border skirmishes like every two months." 

"Those are _boring_. I want - To wear pretty gowns, and go to balls, and to have my own box in the theater where everyone looks at _me_ instead of the stage." 

"Yeah?" Claude shrugs. "Well, come to Derdriu. Your family has a residence there and everything, and I'll go to the theater with you." 

"That sounds nice," she mumbles, snuggling closer. Her breath smells like honeyed wine. "Hey, Claude?" 

"Mm?" 

She blinks up at him, eyes wide and sad. 

"Do you think we'd be in love if we hadn't slept together right away?" 

He sighs. "No," he says, loosely wrapping his arms around her shoulders. "I mean, we had the perfect conditions, didn't we?" He chuckles. "This new kid that's weird but also totally hot shows up, and the prettiest girl in school moves in like a goddamn shark smelling blood before anyone else could even get a word in edgewise." 

Hilda shrugs a shoulder, unrepentant. 

"You're a Riegan, I'm a Goneril. It's like we were destined to be this power couple, you know?" She yawns, nuzzling into his shoulder. "And you were cute, so I had to stake my claim before some other girl tried anything." 

"Ah, yes. The ancient ducal practice of 'dibs'," he says, and Hilda giggles. "So you swept me off my feet, and you turned out to be funny, and smart, and at least somewhat decent a person hidden somewhere under the horrible personality-" Hilda boxes him in the stomach and Claude laughs, dancing away until Hilda catches him and wrenches him onto the bed, curling up half on top of him. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You know you were my first, right?" 

Hilda quirks a grin at him. 

"That much was obvious," she says, planting a kiss on his shoulder to take the sting out of her words. "You were mine, too." She looks at him for a long moment. "I'm really sorry I couldn't love you," she says at last. "I thought I would." 

"You do love me," Claude responds easily, slinging an arm around her. "Just not like that." 

"I guess." She closes her eyes, snuggling into a more comfortable position against his side. "I wish I did, though. We could have been good." Claude hums in assent, knocking out a little more space for his legs next to Hilda's surprisingly knobbly knees. 

"Do you want to sleep here tonight?" he asks, idly petting her braided hair. She's a cuddly drunk who hates being alone, and the warmth of her against his side is nice. 

"I'd like that," she mumbles. "Can we pretend? Just for tonight." 

"'Kay." He kisses her between the eyebrows. "Night, Hilda." 

She murmurs something into his arm, already half asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm writing a Claudeleth fic," I say. "I just need it to discuss every other Claude-ship ever for.... personal reasons." But I promise it's heading fully into Claudeleth territory, and _soooon._
> 
> I hope you forgive me the lack of Byleth in this one, I wanted to get Dorothea in there before we move forward, and I will always want to write more of this Hilda - Claude dynamic that I don't even know what to call. The next chapter is Byleth's and yes, our two leads will actually interact in that one. They will even dance, and far too closely to each other *eye emoji*


	5. The ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes forget to leave space for Sothis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters keep getting longer and trying for one a week may not feel viable in the long run. I could have split this into parts, but I didn't feel that did it any favors other than setting an arbitrary number of words as a target chapter length. 
> 
> Fun fact: I am renfair enthusiast with at least a rudimentary knowledge of fashion and fabric history, and I love that I get to yeet all that out the window with the motivation ‘timeskip Hilda proudly shows off her bra straps, fuck accuracy.’ 
> 
> It’s very liberating.

The week of the ball rolls around, and Byleth finally concedes that it is some sort of dressy event and that the only thing in her wardrobe aside from her regular clothes are… One winter cloak and her pyjamas. She briefly entertains the notion of trying to wrap the cloak around herself somehow, but gives up after just trying it on in her room makes sweat roll down her back. 

Her options, then. Hilda, she is sure, would be delighted to help, only Byleth can picture both Hilda's outrage at her own lack of ladylike polish and herself decked out in something far too extravagant for comfort. She'd rather not. Manuela? No. She might end up drunk and indecent. …Flayn? Byleth is not very interested in fashion as a rule, having found that just finding one garment that you like and then buying enough of it that you can wear it every day works wonders, but even she can tell that Flayn's tastes are a little dated. Curiously so. Byleth has only seen the like in oil paintings. Dorothea? Same problem as Hilda, though probably a bit kinder about her shortcomings as a woman. 

_Hm._ She is not alone in this. At least one other person will be dealing with the exact same problem. 

"Leonie," she says, having finally tracked the woman down to the smithy, where she is hammering the dents out of an old sauce pan she has evidently deemed salvageable. "What are you wearing for the ball?" 

Leonie grins, the same grin that means Lorenz is about to eat dirt in the sparring ring. 

"Well," she says, banging on the pan while she considers. "I'm certainly not spending every afternoon this month running between different tailors to see which stuck-up asshole I want to give hundreds of gold to dress me like a cupcake." She puts the hammer down and inspects her work critically. "I figure I can knock together something passable out of some fancy curtain fabric I found on the cheap." Her eyes glitter as she looks up. "You want in?" 

Byleth grins. She knew Leonie at least could be relied on to keep her head. 

"Please." 

Together, they go scavenging for materials for a second dress, scoring a somewhat sun-bleached furniture velvet in a pretty shade of blue and a soft and supple goat skin that they get for cheap because it has some ugly stains. 

"Don't worry about it," Leonie says, and shows her how to boil a few iron nails in vinegar to make leather dye and turn the leather a smooth, shiny black, which she has a pattern ready to turn into a fitted vest. The skirts, however, presents some problems. Neither one of them has ever sewn a full length skirt before and they have severely underestimated how much fabric is required to be able to move in one. Eventually they give up and seek out Bernadetta's help, and, amidst plentiful hand-wringing and mumbled lamentations, manage to enlist the girl's aid. Once Bernadetta is engrossed in her task she seems to forget about their presence entirely, scuttling about on the floor marking the fabric with a piece of soap and muttering under her breath about their incompetence. Byleth and Leonie sits silently on her bed while Bernadetta resuscitates their attempts at dressmaking, looking rather like a frustrated spider having to unexpectedly rearrange her web. 

"There," she says, suddenly looking up. "Just sew the solidly drawn edges together and hem these dashed - AAAH _oh no Bernie you got carried away and were rude why would you SAY such things what is wrong with you please don_ _'t be mad I'm so sorry -_ " 

Byleth attempts to calm her while Leonie stands there in consternation, the rust and gold-colored brocade of her dress to be clutched uncertainly in her hands. 

"I'll just… get started then," she supplies, edging towards the door and Byleth nods helplessly. When she finally checks on Leonie's progress after spending half the afternoon reassuring Bernadetta that no, they're very grateful for her help and neither one of them has any plans of murdering her for her transgressions, she is impressed with the result. 

Leonie twirls, the slit skirt flaring dramatically around her bare legs, a short black skirt keeping the essentials covered underneath it. Her grin is predatory when she stops, sharp white teeth and gold glittering off her skirt as it settles . 

"We are going to knock those nobles out of the fucking park in these." 

* * *

" _Leather_ ," Hilda purrs, looking her up and down. Her eyes trace slowly up and down Byleth's body in a way few other people would have gotten away with, lingering on her bare thigh through the high slit up the side of her skirt. "Bold. I like it." 

Hilda herself looks unsurprisingly stunning, the sweet gauzy flare of her wide pink skirts set off by artfully interlaced black ribbons. She does look like a cupcake, if that cupcake was laced with poison and planning to seduce the richest man in the room to murder him for his fortune. Marianne bobs a tiny curtsy next to her, peering up at Byleth through her bangs. Her gown is simple but lovely, her hair done up with a dozen little mother of pearl clips of birds and flowers bearing Hilda's unmistakable touch. 

"You look nice, Professor," she says. 

"Thank you," Byleth says, infusing her voice with all the warmth she can muster. "You do, too." 

"Oh." Marianne looks up shyly. Byleth can't quite tell if the pink tinge to her cheeks is makeup or embarrassment. "That is all Hilda's doing…" Possibly both, though certainly the latter given how the shade deepens when Hilda smiles indulgently at her. 

"Don't be so modest, sweetie," Hilda giggles, "I just highlighted what's naturally there." She winks conspiratorially, then begins pulling Marianne away. "Now let's go fluster some boys. And Professor?" Her smile turns conspiratorial. "I know someone who wants to dance with you~!" 

She flutters her sparkling fingernails towards the right, and Byleth turns her head to find Claude approaching. 

"Teach," he greets with a wink, and before she has time to respond he's already pulling her onto the dance floor. 

It does not take many steps before Byleth is reassured that foregoing Claude as class representative in the White Heron Cup was the right choice. He's not _terrible_ : Ignatz wasn't any better when she started training him, and she can see several of the commoner boys struggling similarly throughout the hall. But Ignatz does not have Claude's natural grace or athleticism, and while his swordsmanship is improving to her satisfaction, he does not have a fraction of the raw talent the boy currently dragging her awkwardly across the floor does - if Claude didn't have that relic bow coming his way, she'd insist he switch tracks to focusing on swordplay instead. So given the ease with which she is used to seeing him, yes, _dance_ out of her way during sparring, his clumsiness tonight is remarkable. 

And being remarked upon, it seems. 

Another thing Ignatz lacks is a bright golden sash marking him heir presumptive to the most influential noble house in Fódlan, and all the extra attention and expectation that entails. And if Ignatz were to narrowly avoid crashing into Edelgard, she believes the princess would graciously accept his apologies rather than, as she does with Claude, keep glaring disdainfully his way as her partner twirls her away. Byleth catches Hubert's eyes across the hall and he smiles thinly, dark menace oozing from his expression. One brave girl who might have been considering asking him to dance scampers away in terror. Some distance away she can see Lorenz frantically trying to dance his way over to them without drawing attention to the budding Leicester emergency. 

She waits for a lull in the music before staying her feet, stopping Claude's momentum with her grip on his hand and shoulder. "That's enough," she says, making sure to smile so he won't think she's angry with him. "You don't actually know how to waltz, do you?" 

He laughs, sheepish. 

"Hilda spent like… a whole minute instructing me." 

Byleth has the most alarming impulse to just. Hug him. Pull him in close and squish him and, half a head taller than her or not, keep him tucked under her chin forever. Instead she picks his hand from her waist and places it on her shoulder, her own hand slipping behind his back. She's not a skilled dancer by any stretch of the word, but she picked up enough of Hilda and Lorenz's pointers while trying to shield Ignatz from their most pointed criticisms that she thinks she can at least recreate the steps recognizably. "Follow my lead," she says, feeling the smile tugging at her lips as she looks up at him. 

"Always do," he says, grinning. 

"So," she asks, as she guides him around in slow circles. There's no particular finesse to it, but they're keeping to the rhythm and not colliding with anyone, so she thinks they're doing well enough. "You asked me to dance just hoping I would take over?" 

"Pretty much," he admits, not looking the least bit repentant. "I'm used to you having my back by now." 

That urge to hold him returns with a vengeance. His thumb rubs along her collarbone, and it gives her the courage to pull him in a little closer, her fingers curling in the back of his jacket. 

"You look nice," she murmurs, smoothing the fabric along his back. She can't say she knows a lot about fashion, but she can tell it's well made and fits him perfectly. "Very proper." 

Claude snorts, nudging in closer still until they are almost chest to chest, his scent enveloping her. 

"Lorenz wouldn't let me leave the dorms until I'd redone my tie three times." 

"You're not wearing a tie," she says with a nod at his dependably open collar. 

"Weirdest thing." Claude's grin is wide and obnoxious. "I somehow lost it in the courtyard." 

Byleth laughs, unthinkingly dropping her forehead to rest against his collarbone. She pulls back immediately, alarmed that her face's tendency to just _do things_ around Claude is apparently spreading to her neck, but then she catches a look at his face. 

She's never seen him like this before, she realizes. His eyes are unguarded, his smile is small and surprised and real. He looks _happy_. 

Slowly, purposefully, she lowers her head again, resting her cheek against his shoulder as they sway together, and for a long moment everything but his warmth against her, the scent of his perfume and his breath stirring her hair fades away. Then they bump into another couple and Byleth snaps upright, hurriedly one-two-three stepping a snickering Claude away to a less crowded corner of the dance floor. 

He's not at all bad once he has some direction, she quickly realizes. He's quick and sure on his feet, and he follows every little nudge she gives him, until she suddenly catches him grinning out the corner of her eye and a split second later finds herself sent spinning. 

"Claude!" she chastises when he pulls her back in, catching her against his chest. "That is not a waltz step." 

"But it _is_ fun, isn't it?" he says, twirling her around again. So much for her leading. "Here, you try." He lifts her arm and twirls under it, and then he's dragging her around by the hand, spinning in repeated pirouettes around her that makes her dizzy just looking. She sees Lorenz, now standing to the side of the hall, sigh deeply at the spectacle and loses to laughter when Ferdinand glances over to them, gives Lorenz a look of sincere sympathy and hands over his glass of wine. Across the floor, Hilda flashes her a thumbs up and a grin with all too much insinuation in it for someone who's 'showing Marianne the steps' for what must be the fourth time this evening. 

"Are you done?" she asks, still laughing, when Claude slows down and returns to her arms, draping himself against her in a way that finally does away with any remaining illusion that they might keep an appropriate distance to one another. "A little dizzy," he confesses, leaning into her. From across the hall she sees Seteth glare at them, putting his palms together and firmly pulling them apart, but Byleth can't bring herself to care, instead just steadying Claude with her hand on his back in some token semblance of a dancing position. "We can do more of the boring dance until the room stops spinning," he murmurs in her ear. Byleth chuckles, taking his hand, quietly spreading her fingers when Claude laces his through hers. They're so close, Claude's free hand slowly trailing up her bare arm to her shoulder, his warm breath against her skin making her shiver. He notices that, exhaling very deliberately against the side of her neck, and Byleth tenses, her fingers curling into his back. 

"Claude," she breathes, failing completely at putting a stern tone into her voice. 

"Yes, Teach?" She can hear the smugness practically dripping from his lips. His lips, which are brushing whisper-light over her cheek just in front of her ear. 

"Not. Here." 

"Oh?" he purrs. "Where, then?" 

Oh. Fuck. 

Byleth swallows nervously. 

She is not so green she doesn't realize she's being hit on, but she _is_ so green that she has never once before wanted to reciprocate. She doesn't know _how_ to, or how to go about the things that happen after, alone together, things she's never given much thought to before. 

The melody begins to wind to a close. In seconds, she'll be expected to let go of him. She has to make a decision before that. Brush the flirting off, keep going as they have been, or take a leap of faith, in both his intentions and her own understanding of their relationship. 

She wonders what it would be like to kiss him, how it would feel to bury her fingers in his hair. She can't find a word to speak, but she tilts her head a little, softly brushing her cheek against his. A mental image of Claude, in her bed with his head thrown back in pleasure, flashes through her mind, and she cuts that line of thought off, pulse thudding in her ears. Her skin feels over-sensitive where he touches her, goosebumps prickling along her back. 

He evidently takes her nuzzling as encouragement. 

"Goddess tower?" he murmurs, so close she can feel his eyelashes tickling against her skin. "Seems appropriate, considering." Byleth hesitates. She can't- She doesn't know- "I don't think anyone will go there until later. Meet me there on the hour?" 

He pulls back enough to meet her eyes, and she can read the undercurrent of nervousness in his face. He's not as casual about the question as his ever-confident half-smile would suggest. 

She nods, elation mixing with dread. 

The melody fades, the dancers separating and thanking each other. Claude's fingers slip from between hers, the loss of his warmth leaving her cold as reality descends upon her. He steps back and bows over her hand, pressing a lingering kiss to her knuckles. 

"Until next time" he says, low, before letting go of her hand. It falls numbly to her side as he walks away, apparently heading to the dessert table to pester Lysithea about something while Byleth she stands rooted to the floor. 

The back of her hand is tingling, and she's almost surprised when she can't see a visible trace of his lips. 

An odd buzzing fills her ears as she walks off the dance floor and toward the drinks table. She wishes she could talk to her father. It would be awkward, yes, but at least he'd know what to do, could tell her if kissing her house leader was a disaster waiting to happen or not. In his absence, she'll settle for a drink to calm her nerves. This event is probably too posh to serve the beer she craves, but there is a large, ornate bowl of some sort of fruit punch that she reaches for with a slightly unsteady hand. 

"Bad idea," Hilda says, appearing out of Heaven knows where and shaking her head. "That thing is like a Claude _magnet_. Whoever drinks out of it is going to have a way more interesting evening than they planned for." 

"He wouldn't _poison_ -" 

"Not _poison_ exactly, but uh, hello? Have you _met_ him? He totally would." 

"Are you saying he did," Byleth asks slowly, "or that you think he might?" 

Hilda shrugs. 

"I didn't see anything, but that proves nothing, he's quick. And look at Caspar. He had some, and he's…" Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows rises meaningfully, nodding to the dance floor. Byleth turns, and quickly spots the subject of their discussion. It's easy, as he is currently shouting along with the cello. "Even more himself than usual," Hilda finishes delicately. 

Caspar is dancing with Petra, flinging her around with such unrestrained energy that Byleth can only admire the girl for managing to keep her feet under her. Claude, she notices, is dragging a near terminally bored-looking Linhardt through a waltz just out of melee range with, if not grace, less overt ineptitude than he displayed trying to lead her. 

"Anyway," Hilda says, indicating a waiter with a tray a little bit away. "I recommend sticking to the supervised drinks. Would you be ever so kind and grab one for me too while you're there, please?" Byleth does, sipping the wine as she hands Hilda her glass. It's white, and fizzy, and that's about as far as her wine expertize will take her. It smells a bit of… grapes? Maybe? 

"Yuck," Hilda says, scrunching up her nose but drinking anyway. "They always have to be so _sophisticated_. What's wrong with something sweet and friendly? This tastes like _yeast_. Well, I guess Lorenz is happy…" Byleth takes another sip. It _does_ smell rather like yeast, and it's sour enough to pucker her mouth, but not in an unpleasant way. "Sooo," Hilda continues, sidling up against Byleth's arm to peer up at her through her bangs, batting her eyelashes. "How was your dance with _Clau~de_?" 

Byleth swallows, avoiding eye contact. 

"It was nice," she says, trusting to the flat mercenary voice that has served her well for many years. 

"'Nice'." Hilda snorts. "I have eyes, you know. I thought clothes were about to start coming off for a moment there." Byleth feels her temperature rise, cheeks growing so hot she thinks she could fry eggs on them. Hilda smiles in satisfaction. "Thought so. Did he ask you to the Goddess tower?" 

"Yes," Byleth says, and Hilda claps her hands in excitement. _If only_ , Byleth thinks, draining her glass and immediately wishing for another. She feels like she has ants crawling under her skin. 

_What is she going to do_ , she asks herself, numbly. She remembers her father trying to give her The Talk when she was fourteen, soon after her body decided to start bleeding on its own initiative. She hadn't even realized all his odd ramblings about swords and sheaths were supposed to be about sex until a good couple of hours in. 

"Professor?" Hilda tilts her head, looking at her quizzically. "Is everything okay?" 

Byleth ignores her and swipes two new glasses from a passing waiter, finishing one of them in a single long swallow. Her father was explaining the wrong thing, she thinks. She grew up among mercenaries: she's known what fucking is as long as she can remember. What she doesn't know is all the social bits that goes on around it when one is _not_ a wham bam thank you ma'am-type of wandering mercenary. She's been trying, and she can't recall ever seeing anyone she knows in a relationship that lasted for more than a week or two. 

She is woefully unprepared for what she thinks is about to happen. 

"Professor?" Hilda asks again, then rolls her eyes and tugs her through the nearby archway into a quiet corridor. 

"Okay," she says, planting her hands on her hips. "Something's wrong. Now spill." 

Byleth looks blankly at her. 

"It's totally something, and it's totally about Claude," Hilda insists. "Come on, I'm trying to help here. Did he say something stupid? He does that sometimes." 

"He didn't," Byleth says, placing her two glasses in a waist-high alcove and sitting herself down on the edge. Then she changes her mind and reaches for the full one and drinks half of it, Hilda observing her under an unimpressed eyebrow. Byleth rubs her face. "It's… You go to the Goddess tower for romance, right?" 

"Duh. It's only the night where the Goddess supposedly listens to your _heart_ _'s desire_ and everything." 

"Do you think he means for us to..?" 

"Hook up? Uh, _yeah?_ It looked like he was practically nibbling on you in the middle of the Reception Hall." 

Byleth flushes. 

"Oh," she says. "I never did that before." 

" _Oooh_ ," Hilda exclaims. "Okay, I get it." She plucks the glass from Byleth's fingers and sets it away, taking her hands in hers. "All right. First things first: You should only do what _you_ want to do, 'kay? Claude won't be a problem but some boys can be pushy." 

Byleth nods. That much was in her father's lecture as well, though at the time Byleth had been really fucking confused by the notion that she might one day _want_ a boy to stab her with his sword. 

One of the female mercenaries had taken her aside the day after to show her where to put the knife if a 'no' didn't suffice. It was knowledge that had served her well a few times. 

"And," Hilda continues, glancing up and down the corridor. "If you do want to go all the way, that's not such a big deal in the Alliance but they make quite a fuzz about it in Faerghus. So you might want to be a little discreet." 

Still not really addressing her problem, but good to know. She nods. 

"Now let's have a look at you," she says, reaching up to fluff Byleth's hair critically, tugging at an uneven strand while clicking her tongue in displeasure. 

Byleth catches her wrists. 

"Hilda," she says tiredly. "That won't be necessary." 

"Now that's a matter of opinion," Hilda mutters. For all that this is exactly why she didn't ask the girl for help earlier, experience has taught Byleth that it's often fastest to just let her get her way. "Oh," Hilda laments. "You could be so _pretty_ if you just put a little bit of effort into it." 

Byleth frowns. Of all the people to talk about effort… 

"No help for it now, I suppose," Hilda says, plucking some hairpins from her tiny bag and twisting some of Byleth's hair up. "But how about you and I go to the baths tomorrow? I can introduce you to my good friend 'conditioner'." She pins another bit of hair into place and nods. "There. That's the best I can do without tipping him off. Do you want some lipgloss?" 

"Tipping him off to what?" Byleth asks. She's not comfortable with all this fuzzing about her face and hair, but just as she expects her students to abide by her expertise on the battlefield she recognizes that Hilda has some relevant experience at this. 

"That I'm playing double-agent wingwoman, _duh_. Lift your tits." 

Byleth blinks, then slowly cups her hands under her breasts and pushes them upwards. 

"Not _like that_." Hilda scoffs, then dips a hand into her own lacy cleavage and tugs, her one breast suddenly looking much higher and fuller than the other until she repeats the action on the other side. "Well. Go on." 

"Why do I have to-" 

"Because he's a _boy,_ " Hilda exclaims, rolling her eyes. "Didn't your mother teach you these things?" 

"She died when I was a baby." 

"Oh." Hilda blinks. "Goddess. I'm sorry." She hesitates for a moment, then leans forward to give Byleth a careful hug. "I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't mean to drag that up." 

"It's okay," Byleth says, quietly. She thinks, often, about her mother. She's tried to mourn her, sitting by her grave some days, but it's difficult to feel anything but a vague sadness over the hollow where she should have been. Her father doesn't like to talk about her. 

"Mm. Well. No girls in your mercenary company either?" 

Byleth snorts softly. A few, though 'girls' wasn't the label typically applied. 

"My father is the pretty one," she says, a smile playing on her lips. "That's why we let him do the talking." 

"Oh dear. Does he cut your hair, too?" Hilda asks, tugging gently on a lock of Byleth's hair. "Well, we will make a lady out of you too, I'm sure. Blow on me." Byleth purses her lips and Hilda sighs a long-suffering sigh, opening her mouth and exhaling her right in the face. "To check your breath. Do it." 

She does, and Hilda makes a face and pulls a mint from her tiny handbag. The cathedral bell tolls the hour. 

"I have to go," Byleth says, swallowing the mint down with the last of her wine. Hilda grabs her arm before she has time to leave. 

"Okay," she says, speaking quickly. "Hilda's dating tips, the super-quick version: let him take the lead. Boys like feeling like they're in charge, and you can always gently steer them with a smile, okay? I know you have this whole," she gestures, "strong and silent vibe going on, but maybe try to be a little more feminine just this once?" 

Byleth nods. She doesn't know how to do that, doesn't know if she even wants to or thinks Claude would buy it for a second if she did, but he's waiting for her and Hilda unappeased has the grip strength of a barnacle. Thankfully the nod seems to satisfy her, and Byleth hurries off. 

"Tits!" Hilda calls behind her. 

* * *

The courtyard is quiet when she crosses it, everyone still dancing in the Reception Hall. Sothis stirs in her mind to tease her for a bit, but quickly loses interest when Byleth doesn't rise to the bait. 

Her cloak whips around her as she crosses the bridge to the deserted cathedral, skirting around it to the foot of the still tower. She steps into the shelter of the doorway and takes a few deep breaths, steadying herself. Then she reaches into the neckline of her vest and scoops her breasts up, thinking it can hardly hurt. She ascends the steps, and finds Claude sitting in a window in the top floor chamber. 

"Teach," he says, hopping down onto the floor. "I was afraid you stood me up." 

"No," she says, lingering uncertainly at the top of the stairs. A part of her wants to go up to him, walk him backwards into the wall and press their lips together. Another part is scared shitless of misreading this, of making Claude uncomfortable, of scaring him away, of him laughing in her face for thinking he'd actually want her. "I'm just," she pauses, trying to get a read on his expression, but the light is low and his eyes are locked to her, hidden behind a wall of easy amicability. "Tired," she finishes lamely. 

"Oh, yeah. It's exhausting, being the belle of the ball." He stretches, hooking his fingers together behind his neck. They're standing too far apart, but if she starts walking she doesn't know how close to stop. Let him take the lead, Hilda had said. "I'm the same way. At least here I have Their Highnesses taking the brunt of the attention, but back in Derdriu?" He shudders. "There are just too many people who _want_ things. If I could get away with hiding in a linen closet instead I would." 

She smiles, because hiding in a closet sounds pretty good right now. Before this confusing new turn to their friendship, she thinks, they could have hid there together. 

"So, anyway…" he says, dropping his hands to his sides and looking around. "Have you heard the legends about this tower? They say that if a man and a woman pray for the same thing here, on this night, the goddess will grant their wish." He looks around, squinting skeptically at the aged stones. "I'm not sure about the 'a man and a woman' part myself, really," he says, eyes going distant as he rubs his chin. Byleth feels some of the tension bleeding off her. This is the Claude she knows, the Claude that puts her at ease. 

Slowly, she steps out of the stairwell, drifting over to what feels like her usual distance to him. His eyes flick to track her movement, but she thinks his attention is at least halfway on dismantling the story. "I've read some very old legends," he continues, "and it seems like the goddess of ye olde days wasn't too picky about that kinda thing. Buuut I suspect the whole story is a much more recent development anyway, just a fun thing students tell each other without bothering too much with checking their sources. Still," he says, now focusing on her. "We do fit the bill, so why waste a chance of having our wish granted? What do you say?" 

Byleth hesitates. She knows what you're _supposed_ to pray for, and she assumes Claude does too. She wonders if he's actually looking at her hopefully, or if she's just projecting. She's not sure what she would do if he _did_ bring it up, because be it an urban legend or not the Goddess definitively _would_ be listening in her case, and while Sothis herself claims to not have a bit of influence over the hearts of humans, praying together for _e_ _ternal love_ is not a thing she can just do on a whim. 

"What would we pray for?" she asks instead, skirting the issue. 

"Oh, I don't know," Claude says airily, in that tone she's come to recognize means he's not at all as indifferent as he likes to appear. "For our ambitions to come true, perhaps? I'm sure you have one or two, unselfish as you may seem." 

"I don't know," she says. Truthfully, she's never thought much about the future. Her father has always been the driving force behind them, Byleth just drifting along and looking to the problems of the present. 

"Surely there's something you wish for? Though maybe you're not quite aware of it yourself…" he says, voice drifting off in thought. "I wasn't, for a long time, and yet here I am." His eyes snap up from their introspection, locking onto hers. "Holding on to some pretty big ambitions. If you want…" he says, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes now open and sincere. "I would love for you to share in them with me." 

Byleth smiles. In a sense, she think she already was. She wants to see him happy. She wants that for all her students, with an intensity that scares her sometimes. 

"I'd like that," she says. Claude lights up. 

"Great!" he says, straightening his back. "Let's get started right away, then, before the Goddess tuckers out for the evening." 

Byleth suppresses a snort, and Sothis makes an affronted noise in the back of her mind. He has no idea how close to the truth he just came. 

_I don_ _'t remember a lot about prayer_ , Sothis says, _but this one is terrible at it._

Byleth quietly agrees, keeping a politely blank face as Claude waves his arms around dramatically, doing his best impression of religion. 

"Yeah," Claude says, nodding in satisfaction. "That ought to do it." He winks, sauntering around a small circle to end up at her side, both of them facing the window and the night sky. "Our dreams are one, now," he says, bumping their shoulders together. 

Byleth laughs, leaning into his side. 

"Is that how it works?" she asks. 

"I mean." He shrugs, his hand brushing against hers. "I think making them come true is still up to us, you know?" He smiles, one of those rare, soft smiles where he's not locking himself away under a dozen layers. "But we'll be pulling in the same direction." 

"Mm," Byleth agrees. On impulse, she reaches out with her smallest finger, looking down to find his counterpart and loop her finger around it, squeezing. "I promise." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought they were going to kiss, didn't you? 
> 
> In fact, for my next trick, I'm going to kill her dad instead.


	6. The murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth loses her foundations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it was bound to happen. Brace yourselves for Untimely Parental Death :(

Claude is off looking for salvageable arrows with Leonie when it happens. He hears Byleth shout and spins on his heel to see her sword whipping out and - His eyes widen as a strange-looking man appears out of nowhere, blocking her blow, and then Jeralt staggers to his knees. 

" _Marianne!_ " Claude yells, pulling his bow from his back, Leonie charging past him with an angry scream. He sees Lysithea gather energy between her hands as he draws and aims, 

Raphael barreling forward - and the man and Monica disappears. 

_The hell?_

Byleth drops her sword and runs, and Claude eases the bowstring back while already moving, skidding to a stop with his housemates staring at him as if _he_ _'s_ supposed to know what to do while the captain of the Knights of Seiros bleeds out in his daughter's arms. 

"Claude," Marianne says in a choked voice, hands glowing with magic and tears running down her cheeks, "it's not working, I can't…" 

" _Do_ _something!_ " Leonie yells, and Lysithea snarls at her. 

"We're _trying!_ " 

He curses under his breath and pulls Leonie out of the way, pushing her at Lorenz with a firm nod. Lorenz, thank the stars, doesn't argue and places his hands on Leonie's shoulders, holding her back from getting in the healers' way. Hilda meets his eyes from Jeralt's other side, her hands supporting his shoulders as he vainly struggles to sit up. 

"Sorry about this, Captain," Claude says to Jeralt and rolls him over on his side, wincing at the bitten back scream that results and how it ends in a choked gurgle. He pulls his knife and slices through the captain's tabard, tearing away the fabric to expose the pierced and bloodied mail beneath. Perhaps first aid can help where magical healing can't, he thinks, trying to slip his hand through the tear. Fuck. It's too narrow for anything but a few fingers, and considering how fast Jeralt is losing blood it'll be too late by the time he manages to get all of his straps and buckles undone. 

Kneeling on the captain's other side, Byleth begins to sob. 

Claude struggles with the rings of the mail, desperately trying to pry link after link apart with the tip of his knife. It's working, but it's not working fast enough - if he could just _cut_ … His eyes finds Monica's dagger lying discarded in the grass, and he reaches for it. Whatever it's made of, it sliced right through - Lysithea snaps out a hand and catches his wrist, the healing magic still wrapped around her fingers flowing into him and picking out his scrapes and bruises in a sudden bright chill, like peppermint under his skin, before they fade to nothingness. 

"Don't," she says, her voice almost a growl. Her eyes are shot through with blood, and while she's always intense, this is at an entirely different level. She looks like she's seen a ghost. "Touch. That." 

Claude blinks at her in confusion. Whatever this is about, she is deadly serious, and once the situation has calmed down he needs to find out what has her in such a state. 

Efforts intensifying, Claude finally manages to saw through enough armor to get a proper look at the wound. It's bad. He's never thought he was squeamish, but the sight of air bubbling out of Jeralt's back with every labored breath makes him feel dizzy, and makes memories he'd really rather not deal resurface with disturbing vividness. For a moment, he can _feel_ the impact of the knife skidding off his rib, and he gasps, one hand reflexively flying to his mouth as his stomach turns. Lysithea glares at him, ever a font of sympathy. Claude drags his hand up his face, pressing his fingertips into the top of his eye socket hard enough to hurt while he fights his mind back onto the crisis at hand. _Okay_. Stop the bleeding. Pressure. He unclasps his cape and wads it up to press against the wound. 

He's never heard of a wound that resists healing magic like this one does. He glances at the dagger again. There's an odd color to the metal, almost an iridescent sheen. Some kind of poison, maybe, though he wasn't aware there were any with such properties. 

" _Please,_ _"_ Marianne whispers. " _Godess, please, please_ _…"_

Jeralt speaks, pink froth gathering at his lips, and Byleth cries, blind to anything but her father. Marianne looks at Claude like she still expects him to _fix_ this somehow and Lysithea like she knows none of them can, and then Jeralt smiles, and Claude can _feel_ his heart slow and stop against his hands. 

_Fuck_ , he thinks, staring back into Lysithea's bloodshot eyes, his heart aching as he turns his eyes to Byleth. She's keening softly, rocking back and forth, sounding like a wounded animal. 

The glow around Lysithea's hands fade, and when Marianne keeps trying, sweat running down her drawn face and mixing with the tears, Claude takes her hands and places them in her lap, squeezing gently. She's shaking. Somewhere to the south, lightning flashes across the sky. The first drops of rain splash cold against his neck. 

"No," Leonie says, shaking her head, "no, don't stop, you…" 

Byleth wails, burying her face in Jeralt's chest. 

Claude closes his eyes. Hears the thunder boom and distantly calculates the distance. The storm is close. 

"It's over," he says, and doesn't resist when Leonie grabs his shoulders and hauls him out of the way. 

"HEAL HIM!" she demands, pressing the sodden cape into the wound. Marianne's hands obediently light up again, and Claude exchanges a glance with Ignatz, who looks helpless, and Lorenz, who sighs and hands him a handkerchief. 

"Make yourself presentable," he says in a murmur, and then he's gently intervening, whatever he's saying making Leonie lay off Marianne and start to sob, her hands clutching Lorenz's arm in a white-knuckled grip. 

Claude looks down at the handkerchief and up at Ignatz, who makes an aborted motion to his own face and then just takes it out of Claude's hand and begins dabbing at his face, the fine white cloth turning pink as rain blends with blood. The rain is beginning to soak through his coat, chilling his shoulders. Most of his classmates are in their shirtsleeves, the call to action too sudden for anyone to properly gear up. They'll be freezing soon. 

He lets Ignatz clean him up while surveying the situation. Raphael has coaxed Byleth into his arms and is cradling her close. Hilda is wiping the blood and froth off Jeralt's face, and she looks up and meets his eyes with very real tears shining in hers. Lysithea takes his blood-soaked cape and uses it to carefully wrap up the dagger while Lorenz tries to comfort Leonie and Marianne. 

Only Ignatz's quick reflexes stop Claude from smearing more blood on himself by rubbing a hand over his forehead. _Think_ , he needs to think. He needs to lead. 

In normal circumstances, they would set up a shelter, light a fire and wait out the weather, but he tries to imagine what sitting there for hours while his own father's body cools and stiffens at his feet might feel like, and no. Absolutely not. He needs to get them home. 

"Lorenz," he says, crouching down behind him. Gentleman that he is, for all his snobbery and foppishness, he's draped his jacket over Leonie's shoulders. His shirt is turning transparent over his back, his hair plastered to his face in wet strands. "I want to be back at the monastery before dark." Lorenz nods, waiting. Marianne is weeping prettily at his right side, while Leonie heaves with huge snotty sobs on his left. Claude tries to take her hand but she shakes him off, hiding her face in her hands. He sighs, looking back to Lorenz. "Can you ride ahead with them and the horses? Tell them what happened, ask them to send a stretcher and… I dunno, they'll know what to do. We'll take the captain back." 

"Of course." Lorenz rises, urging the girls along with him. Marianne follows, but Leonie crumples back to her knees halfway through. 

"Go," Claude mouths, and Lorenz turns, leading Marianne along and saying something about Dorte, which gets a weak smile in response. "Leonie," Claude says, hand hovering over her forearm. "C'mon, look at me." 

"Leonie!" Lysithea snaps from behind him, making both him and Leonie jump. He turns to blink at her, waist-high, soaked and radiating judgment. "Jeez. Pull yourself together." 

And that, of course, is what gets through. He makes a mental note of it as Leonie wipes her face on her sleeve, nodding. 

"You're right," she says, voice thick. "Sorry." Claude sends her off to the horses, and while she looks back at Jeralt over her shoulder, she goes. Claude looks at Lysithea, eyes sweeping the wrapped dagger she's gingerly holding by the fabric. She knows something, but he can badger her about it once they're moving. 

He sighs deeply. He wants nothing more than to say something that will make Byleth feel better, but he hasn't the faintest idea what that would be. 

"Teach," he says instead, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. She lifts her face from Raphael's chest and blinks blearily up at him, face contorted with pain, tear-tracked and snotty. His heart breaks for her and he acts on instinct, gathering her in against his chest and tucking her head under his cheek. "I'm so sorry," he whispers, and she nods, oddly still and quiet in his arms. "We need to get back to the monastery, okay? It's gonna get cold." She nods again and glides to her feet, expression closed off as she moves to retrieve her sword. Claude looks after her, helpless and hating it. 

"I don't know what to say to her," Hilda says, squatting delicately next to him and Raphael. Her eyes follow Byleth's path, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "I don't know what we can do." She shivers, and pulls the hem of her skirt as low at it will go toward her knees. "Brrr." Giving her a tired look, Claude shrugs out of his coat and hands it over. Resisting Hilda is always a struggle, and he doesn't have the energy for this one right now. 

"She'll be okay," Raphael says, eyes downcast. "After some time. We make sure she's not hungry and has something to do besides mourn." 

"Good plan," Claude says, getting to his feet. His undershirt is already slicked to his back, his arms covered in goosebumps when he rubs his hands over them. Hilda is gonna owe him a major favor for this one. "You think you can carry him?" he asks, nodding at Jeralt. 

"No problem," Raphael says, loops his arms under the big man's back and knees and stands up. "Uhm. Which way did we come from? I can't see the monastery anymore…" Claude squints up into the rain in the direction he knows it should be, but can see nothing but a haze of rain and low clouds. Lightning cracks again. 

"It's definitely that… direction…" 

"I remember," Ignatz says, walking up to them and handing everyone the weapons they'd discarded in the chaos after Jeralt fell. "I was paying attention to the trees and the cliffs and- …things when we came here…" He blushes, because of course he does, having been forced to divulge his tree-ogling ways. Claude nods to Hilda, directing her with his eyes to take point on professor herding. She can start repaying her coat-debt with that. 

They walk for what feels like ages. It's cold and wet, Lysithea stonewalls him when he tries to find out what she knows about the dagger, and Byleth stares numbly at nothing with a blankness that's driving his heartache into overdrive. When he tries to talk to her she barely responds. She doesn't seem to even see any of them. 

"She's scaring me," Hilda whispers to him at one point. 

"Me too," he says. "I can't get through. I'm worried about her." 

"I'm worried about _me_ ," Hilda hisses, throwing an uneasy look at Byleth walking quietly along with measured footsteps, not a trace of life in her motionless face. "It's _creepy!_ " 

Claude sighs and takes Hilda's spot by Byleth's side. She ignores him when he tries a tentative arm around her shoulders. It feels too weird to keep holding on to her when she's not even acknowledging it so he drops his arm and walks silently beside her, watching her out of the corner of his eyes. After some time he brushes the back of his fingers over her hand, careful to maintain the illusion that it could have been by accident, and her expression doesn't change but she does swallow. 

"Teach?" he murmurs, brushing their fingers together again. Her hand moves quickly, grasping hold of his with speed like a snake striking, squeezing it so hard he thinks he can feel the bones grinding together. He gives her a gentler squeeze back once she's done crushing his palm, and while her face stays blank and empty, eyes fixed in a haze in front of her, fresh tears brim in her eyes and mix with the rain dripping down her cheeks. 

Finally, they reach the edge of the woods and begin trudging up the hill towards the monastery. It's even colder here where the trees don't shelter them from the wind, and within moments his teeth are chattering, the hand not anchored in Byleth's tucked up in his armpit in an attempt to bring some sensation back to his fingers. He was expecting guards or even a few of the remaining knights to intercept them long ago, but now that he can see the road winding all the way up to the gates with no assistance coming the last of his impatience melts away to be replaced by worry. 

It's not a long ride - not a particularly long walk either, unless you're doing it in the rain, in (parts of) your school uniform, at the end of the Ethereal Moon and while carrying the dead body of someone you set out with. Their horse-borne housemates should have been back more than an hour ago. 

The guards at the marketplace entrance stare as they come into view, and before long one is running to meet them. Yes, it's Captain Jeralt. Yes, he's dead. No, Lorenz, Leonie and Marianne have not come back. Claude pushes wet hair out of his eyes, eyes scanning the hillside in some vain hope that they'll choose this moment to show up. They don't, of course. 

_Well, shit._

He's getting some dry clothes before he goes out looking. Dry clothes and a horse. 

Before long, they are being escorted into the monastery with the guards carrying Jeralt on a stretcher, most of him covered under a gray shawl that Hilda somehow acquired off one of the merchants. 

"Can you hold down the fort?" he asks her as they're nearing the stairs to the infirmary, "I need to find the others." She nods, opening her mouth to answer, and then- 

"I'll go with you," Byleth says, voice dull but unwavering. Her eyes look right past him, more blank than he's ever seen her before. Blank and exhausted. 

"No." Claude holds up a hand. "I got this, Teach. Trust me." 

Hilda snakes an arm around Byleth's waist and steers her back to the stopped procession. 

"We need you here, Professor," she says, "We're all so terribly frightened, we couldn't bear it if you left us now." She catches Claude's eyes over Byleth's shoulder, tossing her head in the direction of the gates. He salutes her with two fingers and veers off toward the dormitories. 

First, dry clothes. Then he needs to gather some riders - it will have to be students, because the Knights are still away from the monastery. Ingrid should come in handy with her pegasus - 

"Claude!" He turns his head and watches His Royal Highness the prince of Faerghus jog up. "I heard about the Captain. Is everyone else unharmed- Heavens, you must be freezing!" Less than a second later, Dimitri's blue cape is draped across his shoulders and the prince stands back, apparently startled by his own actions. He bows politely, but not before Claude catches the blush forming on his cheeks. It makes him laugh for what feels like the first time in ages, though realistically it's only been what, a couple hours since everything went to hell. 

"I was, thanks." The cape isn't very warm, decorative more than practical, but it's a whole lot better than nothing. "And I don't know, Marianne, Leonie and Lorenz should have been back by now. I'm heading out to look for them. Mind if I borrow Ingrid and Sylvain?" 

"Of course. Of course _not,_ I mean. I'll go get them." 

"Thanks. Ferdinand too, if you can find him. I'll see you at the stables in ten." 

Dimitri nods, hurrying off, and Claude goes to change his clothes, grabbing his winter cloak while he's at it. Then he picks the locks of his missing housemates' doors to grab their cloaks, and when he can't find Marianne's he steals Hilda's instead. 

He jogs down to the stables, considering his options. A wyvern can cover more ground, but the forest is dense and while a pegasus can fold its wings in and run like a horse, a grounded wyvern is clumsy and liable to crush its rider against a tree. Besides, riding a wyvern in a rainstorm is a truly miserable experience. Horse it is, then, pegasi being the misandrist bastards that they are. 

Ingrid and Ferdinand are already astride their horses when he arrives, with Dimitri holding the spirited chestnut mare Claude likes by the bridle. How did he know… Ah. He spots Cyril over in the wyvern enclosure, trying to get one saddled while the big lizard huffs its displeasure. Of course. Cyril's not one to be put off by a bit of bad weather. 

"You can't talk me out of helping," the boy says, and Claude raises his hands in surrender. He wasn't planning to anyway. 

"Alright," he says. "But don't get tangled up in the trees, and go to ground if the lightning starts up again." Cyril nods, and Claude turns. "And do that under a roof, she's cranky because she's wet!" he says over his shoulder, and Cyril looks at him quizzically. Claude winks, and Cyril's head tilts further, and then the wyvern butts him with her head and Cyril falls over. Oh well. 

Sylvain is ready too by now, looking at Claude as he secures the extra cloaks behind his saddle. Before he can mount up, Dimitri touches his elbow, leaning forward to speak privately. 

"How is the Professor doing?" he asks. 

Claude lifts his eyebrows in the facial equivalent of a shrug. 

"Not good, but what can you expect. She's up in the infirmary with the rest of the Deer." 

Dimitri looks at the ground, biting his lips in thought. 

"Would you mind if I go check on her? I ," he says, clearing his throat, "I have some experience of what she is going through." 

Why the heck would _he_ mind if- oh. The dance. Everybody did see that, huh, and now they have ideas. 

"Of course," he says, then echoes their previous conversation with a wry smile. "Not. Of course not." He lets his face fall for a second, because for one thing Dimitri really does seem to be kind and honest down to his core, something that is downright _concerning_ in the heir to a throne, and for another Claude himself has no idea how to comfort Byleth in her grief. "Please do," he says, leaving his weariness on full display. "I don't know how to help." 

Dimitry nods and steps back to hold the bridle, letting the curious mare sniff at his hair while Claude mounts up. 

"So," Sylvain says, "not to be rude or anything, but-" 

"I've never seen you ride," Ingrid cuts in, one eyebrow raised critically. "Will you be alright?" Dimitri looks embarassed. 

"I'll get by," Claude answers with all the ingratiating pleasantness that Ingrid lacks, gathering up the reins. "Dimitri. Would you have someone light a bright lantern in the Goddess tower if they come back?" 

"Of course." 

"Thanks. Ingrid, Cyril: you're on recon, but keep track of us too. Redheads, with me." 

Ignoring Ferdinand's outraged sputtering and Sylvain's snickers at the reaction, Claude touches his heels to his horse's sides and leads the party out into the gloomy evening. They have about an hour, an hour and a half before full dusk sets in, then they'll have to rely on lamplight. He hopes they'll have found them before then. 

He hopes they're okay. 

They trace the path they walked before, and now that he's focused on that instead of everything else that was going through his mind it's pretty obvious where they diverged. The undergrowth is crushed and the hoofprints are obvious in the mud. 

"Doesn't look like they were attacked," Sylvain supplies. 

"I'll go first," Ferdinand says, maneuvering his horse past Claude's. "We do not know what may await us, and you are better at range." 

They follow the hoof prints into the woods, the dusk deepening to darkness under the tree cover. Lanterns help light the trail for tracking, but does little to ease the oppressive atmosphere. Claude glances up toward the tree tops, wondering where their fliers are. He can only see scattered fragments of the sky, now dark blue and with the first stars twinkling into being. Then they come across a rocky area which slows them down considerably while they look for tracks. He'd really need Leonie here to find Leonie, Claude thinks, shaking his head. Then blackness sweeps across the for once visible sky, and Cyril swoops into view. 

"There's a fire up ahead!" he calls, and sets off, and they follow as best they can without endangering their mounts. 

"Oh dear," Ferdinand says as he rides into the clearing, Claude hot on his heels. "What happened?" 

Oh. They're back at the chapel, not far from the place Jeralt was stabbed. He should have realized. Marianne and Lorenz are sitting huddled by a small fire under a tree, Marianne red-eyed from crying and Lorenz with his head tilted back, fingers pinched around a bleeding nose. 

"Girlfriend mad at you?" Sylvain drawls, and Lorenz glares daggers at him. 

"Neither of these lovely young women are my _girlfriend_ , Gautier, and you'd do well to-" 

Claude tosses a cloak at him, and Lorenz is evidently cold enough that he takes it without comment. Claude tosses the other one before he has the chance to make a big deal out of offering it to Marianne. 

"Where's Leonie?" 

"Take a wild guess," Lorenz grumbles, gesturing out at the field. "She's not listening to reason." 

"I got this," Sylvain says, dismounting, and Claude gives him a doubtful look. 

"You cannot intend to _seduce_ the poor girl!" Ferdinand exclaims, "She's just lost her mentor! She's distraught!" 

"Should make it easy," Sylvain says, smirking. "I'll just offer a shoulder to cry on, kiss the tears from her cheeks - I'm joking, I'm joking, jeez." Four sets of eyes give him extremely suspicious looks. " _Joking._ No, I've been wrangling Felix for years, I got this. You gotta let them yell themselves tired and then they fall asleep. Easy as pie." 

They watch him stride off. 

"Oh," says Marianne softly, covering her mouth with a hand. Claude winces. 

"Should have thought he'd be used to dodging that one," he says, watching Sylvain stagger with his hands clasped between his legs. 

Ferdinand grimaces. "I suppose Felix was too well raised to think of that maneuver." 

"His loss," Claude says with a chuckle. "It's effective." 

"Why am I not surprised you think that," Lorenz grumbles. "You're a disgrace." 

"An _effective_ disgrace," Claude retorts, considering Lorenz's nose. Marianne must have tried as well, and while he can't spot any fresh injuries on her she's definitely been crying again: Leonie doesn't mince words at the best of times. Well. He can handle being yelled at, and he should be quick enough on his feet to avoid the more tangible expressions of her wrath. 

In the end, Sylvain's approach was not bad. Claude waits out the insults, and while the delivery is impassioned the content is not very inventive. He has been slandered by minstrels and vilified by high priests before an audience of thousands - At one point, a prominent poet wrote a poem about his shortcomings that Claude can still recite by heart. He does think the guy was being a mite hard on a ten-month old baby, but hey, several of his predictions came true. 

It's made him pretty thick-skinned. So he stands there, keeping out of melee range but otherwise just letting Leonie's rage wash over him. It's fascinating, really: Angry people are so predictable. He can almost count Leonie's insults out on his fingers. He is a coward and a bastard, he murdered his uncle for his title, he fucks pigs and also men (he is a little amused that men came after pigs in this version, he's gonna tease her for that later), his mother is a whore, his father is also a whore, and a rapist, and a pig-fucker, he's not funny (ouch!), he's sucking up to the Professor (she's running out of steam), he's a fake asshole (true), he has no real friends (also true) aaand there. She's done, clenched fists shaking as she begins to cry. 

"Want your cloak?" he asks, holding it up, and she nods, pale and tired. 

"I'm sorry," she croaks, folding in on herself. "I said… I don't think that. I'm sorry." 

"Hey, hey," he soothes, deeming it safe to move withing striking distance. "I'm like a duck, words roll right off." He wraps the cloak around her. "There. Better?" 

She looks at him, trying to smile but not quite pulling it off. Instead she sighs, beginning to walk back to the others. 

"You could have me executed for that," she says. Her tone is as matter of fact and expressionless as he expects from Byleth. 

Claude frowns. 

"But then you'd be dead, so that seems like a poor deal for both of us. Besides," he says with a wink. "It's not slander if it's true." 

Leonie stops, blinking at him. He grins back, letting her finish her mental inventory. 

"You did not fuck a pig," she states finally, and Claude barks out a laugh. 

"Correct." His smile turns sly. "I did fuck a man, though." 

She smiles back, rueful. 

"I'm not surprised, and it was shitty of me to try to insult you with it." 

"Apology accepted. And coward, bastard," he grins, lacing his fingers together behind his neck, "I mean. You have met me, right?" 

"I meant-" her eyes widen and she grabs him by the arm. "Are you saying you're illegitimate?" 

"No," he sing-songs, teeth showing through his grin, "because the old man decreed I wasn't." 

" _Why are you telling me this. This could make Lorenz leader of the Alliance._ " 

Claude smirks. 

"Because now you can get back at me if I should try executing you." He shrugs a shoulder. "It's stupid anyway. My parents eloped. They're married, the Church just didn't get a say in it. So it's not," he wiggles his fingers dramatically, " _officially recognized_ or some bullshit." 

"Huh." 

"One thing though?" 

"Hmm?" 

Claude puts on his hurt face, complete with dramatic pout. 

"I _am_ funny! Hilarious, even." 

Leonie snorts weakly and punches him in the shoulder. 

* * *

It's past lights-out when they ride back into the monastery, and Claude is immensely grateful to whoever told the guards at the gates to expect them. He passes the favor along by telling them to be on the lookout for Ferdinand and Sylvain, because Sylvain absolutely could not sit his horse after his encounter with Leonie's knee and Lorenz had been too cold and wet to try to out-gracious Ferdinand when he offered to walk with him. 

He spots both Ingrid's pegasus and the wyvern Cyril was riding snug in their respective stables, and surmises that they both got back without incident after they waved goodbye at the chapel. Lorenz's nose is probably broken, and Marianne is so exhausted that both Lorenz and Claude himself has had to talk her out of trying to do more magic lest she hurts herself. Leonie is somewhat apologetic, but mostly lost in her own head. 

Claude drags all three of them up to the infirmary, where he finds Manuela and Dimitri playing cards to pass the time. 

"Oh thank goodness," Manuela exclaims, immediately fuzzing over the chilled students. Claude nods his greeting to Dimitri as the prince takes the opportunity to slip away, looking distinctly relieved to be out of Manuela's clutches. Too nice for his own good, that one. 

Lorenz makes a noise that would be funny if Claude didn't feel genuinely bad for him as Manuela sets his nose, and soon the three of them are sitting on cots with thick blankets wrapped around them, being fed some concoction that has Claude intensely relieved he's managed to stay warm and dry enough to be spared. Manuela declares she's keeping them for the night for observation, and Claude thanks her before she gets the idea to lock him up for safekeeping as well. 

"Where's teach?" he asks, and Manuela's face softens. 

"In her room. I think all the little fawns stayed with her." 

Claude smiles at that. He's oddly proud of them. 

"How is she?" 

"Devastated," Manuela says, sighing, "but not, well, not abnormally so, I think. Physically she's fine." 

He jogs down the darkened stairs, snagging a candle out of a wall scone to see better by, and makes his way back to the dorms. A faint light is still on in the corner room where Byleth stays, warm glow visible under the door. He carefully tries the handle, easing the door open a fraction to peer inside. 

Byleth slowly turns her head to look at him. She's sitting up with her back against the wall, her fingers slowly combing through Lysithea's hair as the girl sleeps with her head in Byleth's lap. Her face is as blank as a doll's. If her gaze didn't track him as he slips inside the room, Claude would begin to fear she didn't recognize him. 

"They're safe," he says in a low voice,, stepping over Raphael's sleeping form, wrapped up in the same kind of blanket he saw in the infirmary. A little further into the room, Ignatz is asleep on the carpet, face hidden in Byleth's pillow. 

"Manuela is force-feeding them some awful combination of broth and whiskey, but other than that they're alright." 

Byleth stares at him and slowly blinks, her chin dipping in a jerky nod like she's a poorly controlled marionette. Claude smiles, sad, remembering the way she laughed just yesterday. He wants to hug her. He wants to crawl into the bed and cradle her close, but there's no space left between Byleth, and Lysithea, and Hilda curled up under the covers at the foot of the bed. 

Instead he spreads his cloak on the carpet beside her bed. Byleth's face twitches, her mouth opening and closing a few times. Claude stills, sitting on the floor and expecting her to say something, until Byleth shakes her head, the hand not carding through Lysithea's hair clenching hard in the bed covers. Her eyes are brimming with tears. 

It's like she's locked inside herself, Claude thinks. She can't get out and he can't get in to help her. 

"I'll stay up with you," he says, slowly reaching out and covering her hand with his. Unfortunately, his body choses that moment to betray him and he's immediately forced to use his other hand to try to cover the most massive yawn. "Sorry," he mumbles, working his jaw. 

Byleth gently untangles his hand from hers and pushes it back to him, shaking her head. She moves like she has to consciously plan every movement. Claude watches her for a moment, then sits back on his cloak. This time she nods. 

Right then. 

He doesn't like leaving her alone, but perhaps his prodding is just causing her more distress. She seemed calm when he arrived, and maybe numbness is what she needs right now. 

"I'll be right here," he says, rolling up in the cloak. "Just… wake me if you need anything." 

When he blinks his eyes open some unknown time later, stirred by Raphael muttering in his sleep, Byleth is still watching him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter got some _amazing_ comments and I want to thank everyone who keeps encouraging me and talking to me about this story SO MUCH ;_; You make my day every time you comment, you really do.


	7. The stupor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth slowly recovers herself, then recovers her father's diary.

Byleth sits quietly, watching. She's distantly aware that her legs are numb from being folded up for so long, but actually moving would mean stepping back into the world and become a person again. She's not ready for that. 

Instead her body sits in her bed surrounded by her sleeping students, and her mind sits at the foot of Sothis' throne. The goddess's is speaking quietly, her words washing over Byleth without their meaning registering, but her voice is kind and her hand is gentle in Byleth's hair. 

Far away, where her body rests, Lysithea shifts in her lap, her movement making Hilda grumble. Without them, Byleth thinks she may become untethered, might drift away into the void entirely, taking Sothis with her. 

Raphael mutters something, twisting around to scratch at his hip. It makes Claude stir, green eyes blinking blearily open and flicking about searchingly before settling on her. 

"Hey," he mumbles, voice thick, seeing her look back. 

Byleth tries to answer, but she doesn't know where to begin. She gives up after a few seconds, with effort managing to shape her mouth into some approximation of a smile. It's wooden, she thinks, more of a grimace really, but Claude seems to read the intent and smiles back at her, looking tired and sad. 

She wonders what he has to be sad about, he didn't know her father particularly well. 

"Try to get some sleep," Claude suggests, shuffling deeper into the cloak he's cocooned himself in. "We'll all be here when you wake up." 

He's still watching her, and Byleth realizes she has fallen back into the world. When she tries to retreat back into the dark nothingness, Sothis blocks her way. 

A sob catches in her throat. 

No. 

She doesn't want to wake up to a world without her father. 

Grief sweeps through her in a flood, riding her body like a physical thing. It hurts, her gut clenching around nothing. Lysithea startles awake, scrambling off her legs as Byleth lurches in place, curling in on herself, hiccuping as she tries to catch her breath. 

"Professor," the girl says uncertainly, and then Claude is clambering onto the bed and folding Byleth into his arms. 

"Shhh," he soothes, pulling her close against himself. "Breathe." Byleth clings, trying to but unable to control her cramping diaphragm. Her breath comes in painful gasps and her fingers curl tightly into his shirt, her tears soaking into the fabric. She cries there, with Claude slowly stroking her back and Sothis fluttering anxiously around her shoulders, until she's too exhausted to feel more. Her head hurts. 

She must have dozed off then, because the next thing she knows is waking up with her eyelashes gummed together and her cheek pressed against Claude's collarbone. Lysithea is trying to crawl out of the overcrowded bed, and Hilda is half sitting up rubbing her shoulder and pouting. 

"You kicked me," she complains, and Lysithea huffs. 

"Are we having class today, Professor?" she asks, completely ignoring Hilda, who throws a pillow at her. 

"Of course we're not! Goddess, you're so insensitive." 

Byleth pushes herself upright, helping Claude right himself from his cramped slouch against the headboard. He grimaces, one hand reaching to massage the back of his neck. 

"Not today, I think," he says, eyes glancing to Byleth for confirmation. 

Byleth nods. It feels like her words are hovering just out of reach. With effort, she reaches for them and manages to croak out a "No." 

"Okay," Lysithea says, pulling on her boots. "I'm going to the library, then." 

"I don't ca~are," Hilda thrills, glaring at Lysithea as she leaves. "Jeez. Does she ever stop?" 

"Nope," Claude says with quiet certainty. 

Byleth finds herself with a small smile despite herself. 

"Good morning, Professor," Hilda says, gathering her hair up into her customary pigtails. "You should know that not just anyone gets to see me without makeup. We're like sisters now." Byleth nods. Words are… Possible, but they take effort to arrange. 

"I've seen you without makeup," Claude supplies. 

"Then you're my sister too," Hilda decides, then tilts her head to look at him. "Poor dear," she says with exaggerated drama. "But I suppose someone had to be the ugly one." 

Claude snorts. 

"I'll believe that when you stop flirting with me. Which incidentally? Incest now." He winks. "Naughty." 

Hilda sticks her tongue out at him and scoots closer to Byleth. 

"You're gross. And the Professor is my _favorite_ sister, so I'm only going to flirt with her. Hey, favorite sister," she coos, and while she's still playful, she's gentle, her fingertips resting butterfly light on Byleth's calf. "Want to get some breakfast?" 

Byleth stills. She's hungry, but the thought of going outside, where her father is gone and everyone will try to talk to her about it, is too overwhelming. Mutely, she shakes her head. 

"Can I be your breakfast sister too?" Raphael asks from the floor. 

"Of course, Raph. Everyone is my sister except Lysithea, because she kicked me." 

Raphael scratches his chin in thought. 

"To be fair, my sister has kicked me plenty of times." 

"Me too," Ignatz says, sitting up. "I think that's what sisters do." 

"Lysithea is all of our baby sister," Claude declares, ruffling his fingers through his hair. "Make sure to remind her of this fact like, at least ten to twelve times a day." His eyes seek out Byleth's, and he holds her gaze, steady. "Come on, Teach. You can't stay cooped up in here forever, so you might as well get it over with. We're with you." 

They form up around her like an honor guard, escorting her to the dining hall, where Raphael brings her a mountain of food and Hilda and Claude run interference on her would-be callers, casually blocking most of them from coming within easy speaking distance. Only Dimitri is allowed through, his soft words sounding a bit rehearsed but heartfelt nonetheless, and Seteth after him with a message that Manuela and Hanneman will cover her classes for the week and that Rhea would like to see her when she's finished eating. 

Byleth thinks she's finished a lot earlier than Raphael does. She's only allowed to leave at all because Hilda invents something she needs help lifting, right at this moment, and Claude fails to follow through on his vow to make sure she clears the plate. 

* * *

The next days pass shapeless and slow, like time itself has shattered. She tries asking Sothis about it. "It's not time that's broken, it's your heart," the dead goddess in her head says, sighing. "It will mend." 

The hours her students spend sitting in with the Blue Lions and Black Eagles are just about the only ones she spends alone, staring listlessly at nothing while tears roll down her cheeks at random intervals. Sometimes emotion makes her nose sting. It feels like the first breath stepping outside in the icy Faerghus winter, which reminds her of her father showing her the mountains he grew up in, pulling her helplessly over the threshold from sad to anguished with loss. 

In between bouts of being at the mercy of her grief, Byleth tries to be practical. She makes lists of things that needs doing: what to do with her father's horse, find out when his crew expect payment and make sure that's handled, make a decision on whether they are her crew now or if she'd better disband them and let them seek their own futures. Her father's funeral needs planning. Seteth has offered to handle the practicalities and Rhea will attend to the ceremonies, but Byleth still feels some kind of filial responsibility to keep tabs, stay involved. 

Raphael brings her food and eats it with her in her room when going outside is too daunting a prospect. After a few days he's so insistent that she come along for a workout that she gives in. It helps, at first. For a few moments she is only her body, muscles aching with fatigue and no thoughts or doubts or memories plaguing her. But grief takes her again as she catches her breath, and she hates it so much she ends up breaking two training swords and a practice dummy before stumbling to her knees, her sword-hand rubbed raw and her arm aching from the relentless battering she's put it through. 

Raphael helps her back to her room, steady hands rubbing liniment into her forearm as he speculates out loud about what he'll have for dinner. 

He stays until Ignatz knocks on the door, shyly asking her permission to paint a portrait of Jeralt. He shows her some sketches he's been making, and they make her cry again, her fingers smudging her father's charcoal features before she wrestles herself under some sort of control. 

"I'm sorry," she croaks, trying to smooth the crumpled edges of the paper. "They're lovely." 

"Would you like to keep them?" Ignatz asks, hovering anxiously at her side. "I could make more! If that, um, if that would help at all?" 

She has less emotionally fraught visits too. Lysithea keeps knocking on her door to discuss homework and the assorted extra credit projects she keeps assigning herself. Lorenz brings her tea, and lets her sit in silence if she prefers to. Leonie tells her she knows this must be even harder on her, says she has no idea what else to say, and excuses herself. Byleth asks her other students to keep an eye on her, and is told that Leonie has been spending a lot of time training alone in the forest. A few days later, Claude has somehow managed to persuade Felix to go with her. She asks him about his choice of companion for his housemate, and he snorts. 

"Pity just makes her angry," he says, "and Felix doesn't have a compassionate bone in his body. It works out." 

Marianne doesn't show her face until Thursday, tears in her eyes and voice trembling as she stumbles through her apology for failing to save Jeralt. Byleth tries to reassure her, but she still has a hard time stringing together more than a few words, and Marianne is too skittish to stay and listen to her try to explain that it wasn't her fault. She leaves in tears, Byleth watching helplessly from the doorway. 

She has worked out by then that they have some sort of schedule, and Lorenz should be arriving shortly. She'll ask him to check on Marianne, she herself can handle being alone for a few hours before Hilda arrives for their nightly session. 

On her first evening keeping Byleth company, Hilda had explained that she simply had _no_ idea what to say that might help, so she's not going to try. Instead she'd unpacked a fold-out case full of beads, and offered to teach Byleth how to make earrings. Their following evenings proceed in the same vein: after a few cursory 'how are you feelings?' and 'can I make someone get you anythings?', the pink menace settles down with some jewelry project or other and proceeds to update Byleth on all the teenage drama happening around the monastery. She can't put faces to half the names that are being gossiped about, but the constant barrage of inconsequentialities are comforting, somehow. Life is being lived. A few of Hilda's stories even make her lips twitch in amusement. 

One night she presents Byleth with a bracelet with a carved flower for every member of the Golden Deer. Lorenz is represented by a rose, naturally, though Hilda has painted it purple instead of red. Marianne is a forget-me-not. She doesn't recognize the name of the flower Hilda picked to symbolize herself, but it is pink, showy and carved in exquisite detail. Raphael is a potato flower, which makes her smile. Claude is, oddly fitting, a dandelion. 

"See?" Hilda says, fastening the bracelet around Byleth's wrist, right below the little deer charm she got for her birthday. "We're always with you." She smiles at Byleth, batting her eyelashes. "And I put a lot of work into it, so you'd better wear it every day." 

Hilda leaves when Claude arrives for the night shift of teacher minding, a vial of a murky liquid in his hand. 

"It'll help you sleep," he'd said the first time he'd brought it, two mostly sleepless nights after her father's murder. "You look awful so I am going to insist. Do you want me to stay?" 

Byleth had nodded and downed the vial, sitting down heavily on the bed waiting for it to take effect. "It's not a knockout potion," he'd chuckled, sitting himself cross-legged at the foot of her bed and flipping a book open. "Just… Lie down, close your eyes. I'll be here when you wake up." And so she sleeps, her feet tucked under his thigh and the rustle of pages turning keeping her company, waking up with the dawn to Claude sleeping with his head leaning back against the wall, book still splayed open in his lap. 

It becomes a routine of sorts, and while Byleth is still overcome with grief several times a day, time goes on. Soon it's been a week, and her father is being lowered into the ground next to her long dead mother. Rhea speaks, Alois bawls, and her Deer mill about her protectively while she sobs into Lorenz's handkerchief. 

She resumes classes the next day, welcomed back by Lysithea's pile of self-assigned essays and a house leader who keeps nodding off in class, snoring softly from where he's sprawled across his desk in the back of the room. 

Her lips twitch. 

She should get him a cot if her sleeping problems persist. 

* * *

It's another week before she can bring herself to enter her father's quarters. 

The first thing she does is follow his instructions and check the bookshelf. Her mother's ring waits for her there, tucked in a small pouch hidden behind a book. Byleth brings it to her lips, pressing a kiss to the cool metal. It's hers now, a keepsake of both of them. 

_Someone you love as well as I love her_. 

Byleth wonders if she has the capacity for that. 

The next thing she seeks out is his diary. It's the same leather-bound book that he's been writing in for as long as she can recall, and it _smells_ like him when she slowly flips the pages. She can almost hear his voice, reading the words aloud to her when tears blur her eyes. 

She starts with the recent entries, lulling herself into the illusion that he's just out on an errand, that his words won't just _end_ with a note about his boots needing mending. Then she goes further back, a chill creeping down her spine as she reads about her own birth, her heart, about their escape from the monastery. 

Somebody walks past in the corridor, and Byleth pulls into a corner, suddenly fearful of being discovered. Her heart - She swallows thickly. No heart. She presses a hand to her chest. Her pulse is thundering in her ears, but she feels nothing. 

Footsteps in the hall, Manuela's voice carrying from some distance away. Byleth forces her fingers to relax before she tears the paper. 

Rhea is just down the hall. 

Byleth shivers, her grief giving ground as fear curls through her. Jeralt had told her to be _wary_ , but not… _This._

Not that he suspected Rhea had killed her mother, that Byleth herself was... She doesn't know. Is she even human? What did Rhea do to her? Why did her father ever agree to come back here? 

_Someone_ _'s coming!_ Sothis snaps, whipping around in the air to face the door. Byleth shoves the diary behind her back just before Alois enters form the hall. 

She can barely understand what he's saying through the turmoil in her head, can barely make herself form words in some semblance of human communication. He tells her to report to Rhea, and Byleth's instincts scream at her to run. 

But she can't. Acting on a threat you don't understand can be disastrous. She needs to keep her head, pretend that she's not suddenly terrified of the arch-bishop, and gather information. Rhea hasn't done her any harm yet. 

Byleth swallows, and tries to summon the Ashen Demon from the depths of herself. Cool. Calm. Collected. 

Unreadable. 

* * *

That evening, back in her room with the door securely bolted - it's silly that it makes her feel safer, it's not as if a door could protect her if Rhea came to… what, cash in on her invetment? Byleth touches the scar that runs down the center of her chest. Her father had said she'd had surgery as a baby. Was that what Rhea did? Cut her open? Why? 

She presses her palm to her chest and tries feeling her heartbeat again. Nothing. Of course she's heard talk about feeling somebody's heart beat before, but she'd never - She had assumed it was a figure of speech, or a romantic exaggeration. She thought the heart was just buried too deep in the chest to feel. 

Her fingers find her pulse in her throat, counting out the rhythm of her life. 

_How_ . 

How can she not have a heartbeat? 

She wonders what else she's missing. 

Her memories, maybe. People often seem surprised at how little she knows of her own life before she came to the monastery. 

Somebody knocks on the door, and Byleth stiffens. She'd been to caught up in her confusion to hear their approach. 

"Teach?" Claude calls. "You missed dinner, but I grabbed some left-overs for you." Byleth hesitates. She's in turmoil. She does not want him to see her like this. 

Although she is very hungry. 

"I can see your lamp under the door, you know," he says. "It wasn't lit when Hilda came by earlier." 

Byleth draws in a deep breath and holds it. Carefully, she tries to put together a person around the chaos roiling in her. Is this why she was always strange, she thinks. Maybe Rhea took the soul out of her body and left her a human automaton holding the void inside. The void and Sothis. 

She can't face Claude like this - she'll scare him. Only her father has ever seen her in this disjointed state, and however much he tried to hide it, she knows it made him uneasy. 

_Demon_ , her memories whisper. Maybe she is. 

"Come on, just take the food," Claude calls. "I'll leave you alone after that." 

He said she was an outsider. He said that he was, too. 

She yanks open the door on a split-second decision, and Claude blinks at her in surprise. 

"Oookay," he says, sending her a quizzical look as he slinks past her into the room. "You look odd. What happened?" 

He puts the tray down on her desk, where her father's diary lies. Byleth silently curses herself, praying that he won't notice. Sothis scoffs in her mind. 

_That one? How do you expect me to make that happen, strike him blind?_

"Oh," Claude says. "Is this Jeralt's..?" 

Well, shit. 

She looks to the floor, eyes tracing the curlicues in the carpet. 

"He kept a diary?" Claude says, voice trailing off as he flicks through the entries. "This goes back years! Hey, does this have anything about why he left the monastery..?" 

Her mouth feels dry. Claude is skimming the pages fast, already back to the year after she was born. He's closing in on her inhuman secret, and quickly. 

"Claude," she says, voice hoarse. 

"Wow. This is a goldmine, Teach. Gods, I wish I could have asked him about this stuff before he-" 

Her hand flips the book shut in front of him, and Claude turns wide, dismayed eyes upon her. 

"That's not for you," she says, voice clipped. He frowns. 

"It's private," she elaborates. 

He bites his lip for a moment. 

"Look," he says, turning around and propping himself against the edge of the desk so he's eye level with her. "I understand this is important to you. Please believe me, I do. But I'm not just nosy, okay?" His fingers drum against the edge of the desk. "We're in the middle of… _something_ here, with the attack on the Holy Mausoleum, and the Flame Emperor, and Tomas - Solon, I should say. And you're part of it somehow." He tilts his head and looks at her like a puzzle he's trying to figure out. "You can wield the Sword of the Creator, Rhea is weirdly fixated on you, Solon called you 'Fell Star'?" He bends at the waist in a small bow. "Please. I'm nottrying to take it from you or anything, but I need to know what this book says." 

"No." Byleth shakes her head. It's too soon, the loss of her father still too raw for her to bear sharing this one thing of him that remains. 

Claude crosses his arms, eyes going unreadable for a moment. 

"I'm going to have to insist." 

Byleth feels a spark of anger flicker inside of her. Her fingers tighten on the leather cover. 

"I said no." 

"Respectfully," he says, the skin around his eyes tightening slightly. "You're being selfish. The information in that could save lives, your students lives." 

The spark ignites, anger a slow-burning ember in her gut. That was a low blow. 

"No," she repeats, enunciating icily. 

Something flinty passes through Claude's eyes, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Then he smiles, but it's not a smile she's ever seen directed at her before. It's cold, cruel, the kind of smile a child might smile while ripping the wings off flies. 

"Alright," he says, wiggling the vial of sleeping potion in his hand. "So… Do I read it while you're passed out on this, or do I have to wait a few days for you to succumb to exhaustion and break in? Because…" He winks, mockery written in the sweet lines of his face. "Given a few things I did have time to read, I strongly doubt you're going to ask for help in guarding it." 

Byleth feels like the bottom has dropped out of her stomach. 

_Stupid_ , she chastises herself. Bitterness twists in her gut. She _knew_ what she was tangling with: for all that Claude lies and cheats and schemes, he's remarkably honest about what kind of person he is. 

And yet she let herself get taken in. Let herself think that she was special to him, that she as a valued ally would somehow be exempt from his games and manipulations. If she's hurt that he'd choose her secrets over her feelings it's her own damn fault for ever expecting differently. 

She doesn't want to look at him any more. 

"Do what you want," she says in a flat tone, turning away. She should be crying, she thinks. Every little thing has made her cry since her father passed, yet this… She just feels tired. 

"Hey…" he says, the uncertainty in his voice pulling at something protective in her core. She scoffs at herself. He's probably doing it on purpose, she's given him every opportunity to learn which of her buttons to push. "Teach." His fingers brush her shoulder and she shrugs him off. "Byleth?" 

Funny, she thinks, tasting bile at the back of her throat. She doesn't think he's ever called her by her name before, and he does it right after showing her with all necessary clarity just what she is to him. A mystery to be solved, not a friend. Barely even a person. 

Unable to be near him any longer, she leaves. 

* * *

Some stupid romantic part of her was hoping she was wrong, that he would come after her. 

He doesn't. 

So she grits her teeth and blinks away the tears gathering in her eyes. A fickle teenage boy doesn't deserve them. 

_Your father didn_ _'t raise you to mope about boys_ , she reminds herself, turning her steps towards the training grounds. She's neglected her training since her father died, dragged along that one time by Raphael, but she feels differently now. 

Focused. 

Angry. 

The clack of her practice blade against the dummy echoes in the deepening dusk, her heartless pulse thundering in her ears. She knows who she is like this. Certain. Deadly. Efficient. 

She thinks this must be why Felix is always training. 

It's at least a couple hours later when Claude pushes the large doors open. She barely grants him a look, ignoring him and continuing her routine. When she finishes, healing palm rubbed raw and blistered again, sweat running down her temples, he's sitting on the steps wrapped in her blanket. 

"What." She turns away from him, inspecting the blade for damage before returning it to the rack. 

"Your mother's name was Sitri." 

Byleth startles, stopping in place. Her wide eyes stare into the darkness, unwilling to face him. 

"I figured you might not know," Claude says, boots scuffing against the stone as he gets to his feet. He walks toward her, stopping a few yards away. "It wasn't in the diary. But I remembered seeing some staff records from a few years before you were born, so..." He trails off, standing behind her in awkward silence. "Byleth." His fingertips brush against her skin, just over the elbow. "Please look at me?" 

Stiffly, she turns her head enough to glance at him over her shoulder. 

He looks… small, wrapped up in the thick white wool of her blanket. The moonlight has washed all color from him, picking him out in blues and grays, his breath lingering like a fog around his face. 

She hardens herself. So he went and tracked down the name of her mother. It would have been sweet, if he wasn't doing it to try to buy himself back into her good graces. 

"I'm sorry," Claude says. "That was… My curiosity got the better of me. I was an ass." 

Byleth stays silent. 

He was - is? Was? - what, her best friend? Certainly the person whose company she most enjoyed. The one she could count on to keep her class alive when she was faltering. 

"Did you read it?" She rubs at her exposed arms with her hands, feeling the cold now that she isn't moving. Goosebumps prickle her skin. "About me." 

"Yeah." A pause, during which she looks at the sand around her feet. "I wasn't wrong when I said you were special, huh?" 

_Special._

That's not how she wanted to be special. 

"Forgive me?" he asks, and she could almost laugh. What choice does she have. Leave him? He has wormed himself too deep under her skin for that. 

She closes her eyes and breathes, in. Out. He has her. So many people warned her about his schemes and tricks, and this is how he gets her. Love. She hopes he never finds out the lengths she'd go to for him. It would terrify him if he's righteous. It would terrify the world if he's not. 

She doesn't say yes, but she doesn't say no either. Claude has the grace not to press the matter. 

"I thought you might want this," he says instead after waiting a few long moments, offering one side of the blanket. "You left without your coat." 

_So did you_ , Byleth thinks. She considers sending him back to his room in his undershirt. Five minutes in the cold wouldn't do him any harm, and she feels petty. But she is also cold and weary, and the promise of his closeness calls to her. 

He's using you, she thinks to herself as she slips in under the blanket, and she's too heartsick to resist. 

They walk back to her room in silence, snuggly huddled together inside a walking blanket tent. If people weren't already gossiping about them, Byleth thinks wearily, they certainly will if they see them like this. 

"So," Claude says once the door is closed behind them. "How much of this was news to you?" 

He takes what is now his customary place, perched at the foot of her bed. She wonders if that is also a part of his game, sitting in her bed when there's a perfectly good chair at her desk. 

She swallows. Wonders if he wants her at all, or if this budding romance of theirs is something he's willing to go through with for access to her sword and her secrets. 

"With the Rhea and the faking your death and everything?" 

"All of it," she says. Her voice is working, but she can't find how to connect her feelings to it. She's tired and confused and she doesn't _want_ to be angry with him, she wants to be comforted. "My father, he- He never talked about my mother, or Rhea, or the monastery." 

"I remember. You'd never heard of the Knights of Seiros when we met. And… I'm starting to think you were right to be scared of Rhea." He pauses for a second. "You really don't have a heartbeat?" 

She shrugs her shoulders. 

"I don't know." 

"How do you not- Come here." 

Past resisting, she takes the few steps to the bed and sits down next to him. What's the point of trying to keep him outside her defenses, anyway? He's what she was trying to defend. 

Claude's hand reaches out for her, stopping before he actually touches her skin. 

"May I?" he asks, and she nods. His fingertips trace over her breastbone, his palm warm as it slides out over the beginning swell of her left breast. Frowning, he touches his other hand to her neck, finding her pulse. "That is so _weird_ ," he breathes, eyes bright with discovery. He stares at her chest in wonder for a few seconds, then seems to recall just where he has his hand. His cheeks tinge pink as he slowly withdraws it. 

"I never knew it wasn't like that for everyone," Byleth says, breaking the heavy silence. Claude regards her curiously. 

"Do you want to feel mine?" he asks, and when she doesn't immediately respond he hooks his fingers in the wide collar of his shirt, pulling the loose fabric down. She reaches out, fingers splaying over his skin. She can feel his heartbeat thudding against her palm, steady and strong. 

"You can listen if you like," he offers. His voice sounds different, a little hoarse, resounding in his chest when she rests her cheek below his collarbone. 

"It's nice," she says, and Claude laughs. "I like it." 

"I like yours, too." He smiles down at her and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "I like weird." 

* * *

Byleth falls asleep that night with her feet tucked in their customary place under Claude's thigh, the taste of his sleeping draught lingering bitter in her mouth, and is rudely awakened in the middle of the night by him falling over while flailing wildly. 

"Sorry," he mumbles, fumbling himself back to sitting. It's dark, the candle he likes to read by burnt out, but not too dark to distinguish the dark circles under his eyes. 

"Lie _down_ , Claude," Byleth scoffs, rolling over to give him space. 

He chews on his lip. 

"Are you sure?" he asks, cautiously stretching out beside her. "I can go back to my room if you want." 

The bed is big enough to fit them both without touching, but not without her feeling the heat radiating from his skin. They've slept closer together than this when squeezing their bedrolls together under temporary shelter, but that was with all the Golden Deer present. Byleth is well aware that she can be a little slow to pick up on social nuance at times, but she's pretty sure that this is… significant. Inappropriate. Another line in the sand that they're crossing. 

"We're just sleeping," she says, giving his forearm a friendly pat. 

"Are we?" Claude asks, catching her hand on its way back. Holding her gaze, he brings it to his chest and presses it over his heart, the thin silk of his shirt cool and smooth against her palm. Above his collar, his bare skin is rough with goosebumps. 

Byleth swallows, mouth gone dry. She forces a mechanical nod, hyper-aware of the heat of his skin and the steady thumping of his heart under her hand. 

"Yeah?" he says. She gets the impression he's laughing silently at her. "Good night, then." 

"Good night, Claude." 

He's still holding her hand to his chest, eyes closed and looking like he's sleeping. She assumes he's faking, she's never known him to be able to just shut down like that - when traveling, it usually takes the combined efforts of the entire class to make him shut up at night. But this is nice. She doesn't want to call him on his bluff. 

And so she falls asleep with his pulse filling her hand, imagining it's beating life into her own lifeless chest as well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a challenge to write because I have so many emotions about the diary scene, and I'm trying to express them through a Byleth who is _terrible_ at emotions and was already dealing with way too many of them. I am so glad to finally be satisfied with it.


	8. The kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth acts on her impulses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the rating has gone up! That’s right, things are about to get physical. Smut inbound. 
> 
> Also, while I respect Byleth’s choice to wear booty shorts to work, I’m going to assume she at least wears long pants during the months that have snow in the chapter intros. Let me dream of reasonable clothing choices, Intsys.

Byleth wakes up and acknowledges to herself that she has fallen in love. 

Claude is still asleep, his hand loosely curled around her wrist and his usually animated face slack and peaceful and less than an arm's length away from her. He's respected the sanctity of her blanket except for his bare feet, which are tucked between her calves. The urge to cup his cheek is overwhelming. 

This time, she doesn't fight it. 

His skin is rougher than she expected, barely visible stubble catching at her callouses as she smooths her fingers along his jawline. She can feel the muscles moving when his mouth curls up in a smile, his eyelashes tickling against her thumb. 

"Morning," he murmurs, nuzzling into her hand. His hand covers hers when she makes to pull away, and he holds it there, turning his face into it to kiss her palm. Byleth's breath hitches. 

"Is this where you finally kiss me?" he asks, watching her through half-lidded eyes. 

Her stomach feels like she's in free-fall. Her voice, when she speaks, stumbles over the syllables. 

"Do you want me to?" 

Claude snorts, shooting her an amused look before nipping at the base of her thumb. 

"I think I've been pretty obvious." His tongue darts out to taste her skin, eyes glittering with mischief as he peers at her. "That's a yes, by the way." 

Her head is spinning as she shifts closer, and then Claude's hand is sliding into her hair, the pads of his fingers caressing the back of her skull. His lips are dry and a little bit chapped against hers as they meet halfway, impossibly soft, and her blood is pounding so hard in her ears she barely hears the desperate noise she feels herself making. She kisses the corner of his mouth, pressing in to brush the tip of her tongue over the seam of his lips, and Claude opens his mouth with a groan, pulling her flush against his chest. His mouth tastes a little stale but she still wants more of him, winding her arms around him and squeezing him tight. Shivers shoot down her spine as blunt nails trail through the hair at the base of her neck, heat simmering in her belly as he rolls them over, pulling her on top of him. 

"I've never kissed anyone before," she whispers when they break to catch their breath. 

Claude grins lazily. 

"I'm honored," he says, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose. The sole of his foot rubs over her calf. "How do you like it so far?" 

"It's nice." She bends down, hands cupping his face to hold him in place as she delves into his mouth again, his fingers clutching tight in the fabric of her sleep shirt. He moans when she slides one hand down the side of his neck, arching against her. "You're noisy," she says on a chuckle, curiously tracing the line of his jaw with her thumbnail. Claude's breath hitches. 

"Is that a good thing?" he asks, his hands braving their way inside her loose sleeping shirt to trail slowly up and down the line of her spine at her lower back. 

"I think so." 

Confused and overwhelmed, she calls on Sothis, who firmly blocks her out. 

_Oh no_ , the goddess scoffs. _If you want to lick the human boy, you can figure out how yourself._

_But I don_ _'t…_

"Teach?" Claude's fingers on her chin pull her back to the world. "Felt like I lost you for a second there." 

She nods mutely, resting her forehead against his. 

"Is this too soon?" he asks, smoothing her shirt back down her back. "Sorry. The last few weeks have been…" 

Byleth hesitates. She never did get a chance to ask her father's advice. 

Perhaps she is making a mistake, but it's one she feels she has to make: she's spent her entire life adrift in the stream of fate that eventually brought her here. Hanging off her father's coattails, now lost without him. She doesn't remember ever _wanting_ anything for herself like she wants this. 

And it's being offered to her, for the small price of making herself available for whatever secret master plan Claude is spinning in his mind - as if she wouldn't stand at his side anyway. 

He's so close. Her thumb strokes softly under his eye, his breath warm against her lips less than an inch away. 

She's seen the meticulous way he maintains his bow, remembers the fight he'd had with Leonie when she tried to go into battle with the flu and was furious at being benched. If she is to be a tool of his, at least she trusts that he will keep her well. 

"No," she decides, and surges back down to slot their mouths together. She kisses him hard, their teeth knocking together; Claude's noises turning to ones of discomfort before he eases her back with his hands. 

"Easy," he mumbles, lips flushed red and swollen from the force of her kisses. "I'm not going anywhere." 

"Sorry," she breathes, looking down on him from where she's braced on her elbows above him, wetting her lips uncertainly. Claude smiles, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, the curve of his lips impish. 

"Come back here," he murmurs, pulling her back in. She lets him lead this time, learning what he does that feels good and trying to copy it, until she feels confident enough to again brush her fingers up the line of his neck. " _Yes_ ," Claude breathes against her lips, tipping his head back to offer his throat, inhaling sharply when she carefully nips her teeth at his jawline. "Gods," he whispers as she kisses down his throat, tangling a hand in his hair to gently tilt his head away, exposing the crook of his neck. "You're a quick study." 

Byleth suckles lightly, relishing in the way Claude's breath catches when she drags her teeth over his skin. 

"Okay?" she mumbles, nuzzling her nose against the corner of his jaw. 

"Gods, yes." His voice is husky when he speaks. "Go on, mark me. I'm all yours." 

Emboldened, she seals her lips to his neck and sucks a bruise to the surface, Claude keening softly in her ear while his fingertips dig into the skin of her back. 

He's gone from trailing absent patterns against the small of her back, to clutching at her shoulder blades, to teasing down her ribs to brush his fingers against the sides of her breasts by the time the breakfast bell rings. She can feel the bulge between his thighs when they shift against each other, but Claude doesn't seem to particularly acknowledge it, neither drawing her attention to it nor shying away when she brushes against it, so Byleth follows his lead. She does quietly notice the way nudging her thigh against it makes his voice change pitch, adding another dimension to the mental catalog she's building up of all the beautiful sounds she can wring from him. 

"We should get up," she says in a pause between kisses, absently toying with the bead at the end of his braid. The braid is beginning to fray, stray hairs escaping their confines. She guesses he redoes it every day. 

"Five more minutes?" he murmurs, already nuzzling at her hand, nibbling playfully at her fingertips. His eyes are sparkling in his flushed face, his lips are red and swollen, and his hair is an absolute mess. She can feel his hardness nudge against her hip as she shifts against him. 

"Do you want me to…?" she asks, her hand sliding down his body to rest on his belly, her fingertips tapping at the edge of his waistband. 

"Uh." Claude swallows. "Do you want to? I'm guessing that'd be another first." 

She nods, dipping her thumb into his belly-button through the thin fabric of his shirt. Claude shivers under her hand. 

"I do," she says. "But I don't want to be late to class." 

He laughs, in a choked sort of way, and guides her hand to his buttons. 

"No worries, I promise to be quick." 

His cock, when she gets her hand on it, is warm, the skin smooth and softer than she'd expected over the rigid core. His eyes flutter closed when she curls her fingers around it, his hand sliding up between her shoulder blades to urge her down to kiss him again. She strokes him and he moans into her mouth, tensing when she tries cupping her palm over the head and rubbing gently. 

"I don't know what feels good," she whispers against his cheek, and his free hand wraps around hers, guiding her hand on him until he's spilling over her fingers with a choked cry. 

Flustered and feeling hot all over, too aware of the fabric of her sleeping clothes as they brush against her skin, Byleth goes to wipe her hand on a rag she usually uses to polish her weapons. When she turns back around, Claude is sitting up in the bed, dick tucked out of sight but looking so disheveled and so pleased with himself that not a single person in the monastery could see him and fail to realize what had happened between them. 

"Claude," she says, chewing at her lip for a moment before mentally shrugging. Given what they just did, there's no reason to be shy. She turns her back and pulls the loose pants she sleeps in off, exchanging them for fresh underwear that immediately feels slimy against her crotch. She'd like to hit the baths, but she has time for either that or eating, and food is more central to getting through the day. 

She can feel Claude's eyes on her. She needs to say something to him, she thinks, pulling up her pants, but she can't think what. 'Thank you' probably isn't appropriate. 

"I'm still your teacher," she starts while pulling her shirt over her head, hesitating with her arms still in the sleeves and the fabric held to her bare chest. "And I don't think I'm supposed to…" 

"Be quite so hands-on with the sex ed?" She hears him getting to his feet behind her and shivers, her nervous swallow loud in the silence. As long as they were touching she felt connected, swept along by a current that guided her hands and numbed her anxiety. Now… His flippant tone bothers her. She can’t put words to what she wants or feels, exactly, but what just passed between them felt important. Right then, he was open to her, his eyes warm and unguarded. The ease with which he’s snapped back into his persona reminds her unpleasantly of how quickly he snapped from sweet to cruel last night. 

Something sour simmers in her belly. He is what he is, she reminds herself. She’d do well not to forget it. 

"I know," he says, his fingers stroking her hair in front of her shoulder to press his lips to the knob at the top of her spine. His arms slide around her waist, gently tugging her back against him. "Don't worry about it," he murmurs into her hair. "I promise to find something else to talk about during my weekly gossip session with Seteth." 

Byleth huffs an attempt at a laugh. It falls flat. 

"Hey," Claude mumbles softly. "I'm serious. Well, not about Seteth, clearly, but…" He presses a kiss to the side of her head. "Wow. Did I finally make you lose your cool?" 

Byleth grits her teeth and brings her unruly emotions back under control. Determined to stay rational, she slowly peels the shirt away from her chest and down her arms, calmly folding it and dropping it on her chair. Claude makes a soft sound against her ear, one hand slowly trailing up her belly to cup her breast. She breathes out in a slow, controlled exhale, her head rolling back to rest against Claude's shoulder. 

"I thought you wanted breakfast," he whispers, sounding near reverent. He kisses the shell of her ear, the hinge of her jaw, her cheek, and Byleth reels. A soft ' _oh_ ' escapes her as he gently tweaks her nipple. 

"I don't know what you want from me," she breathes, uncertain what to do with her hands. He's touching her again, and for all that her mind is spinning, trying to interpret the situation, it's as if the anxiety bleeds off where they're skin to skin. 

"You mean, besides this?" he purrs, his other hand sliding up to fondle her other breast. He kisses her neck, and Byleth squirms, feeling his grin against her cheek as he lifts his head back up. "Mmm, let's see… There's that essay I still haven't turned in, perhaps you'd let me take an oral exam instead…" 

This time Byleth's snort of laughter is genuine. 

"No. And if you think you can flirt your way out of sword practice I've got bad news for you." 

"Wouldn't dream of it." He nips at her ear, one hand skimming down over her belly to rest over the buttons keeping her trousers closed, one fingertip just barely dipping inside the fabric. He brushes it teasingly past the edge of her underwear, making nervous want curl up her spine. "I might miss my chance of you knocking me down and having your wicked way with me." 

"Claude," she says, breathless, grabbing at his wrists. He's wearing his coat again, the gold threads in his cuffs stiff as she fumbles them up his arms to reach his skin. "Tell me. What do you want?" Giving up on words, she pushes his hand down past her waistband, groaning when he brushes a fingertip over her clit. 

"From you?" he asks, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. His fingers gently pinch her nipple, and Byleth grunts, head dropping limply back onto his shoulder. "I want you to come to Derdriu with me." He dips down a little, wetting his fingertip at her opening before returning to her clit, his other hand giving her breast a squeeze. Her knees feel weak. "I want you to be my adviser," he says, kissing her neck, "and my friend," kiss, "and my lover, and if needed, my general." One finger slides slowly inside her, making her shiver and spread her legs wider. 

"Is this- ah! - a contract negotiation?" 

Claude laughs. 

"If you want it to be, though in that case I think I have an unfair advantage." His thumb rubs over her clit in time to his finger curling inside her. Byleth squeezes her eyes shut, trying to memorize the sensation, her fingers fumbling at her buttons to give him more space to work. "But if it were," he says, nuzzling his nose into the space behind her ear, "would you come with me if all I'm offering is myself?" 

_Yes,_ Byleth thinks. The choice is already made for her. 

The bell rings again, meaning that it's time to finish breakfast and get ready for class. 

She wants to go with him, yes, but she has responsibilities. 

"What about my father's- _my_ crew?" 

Claude stops for a second, then huffs a giggle into her neck. He slides a second finger inside her, does something with them that shoots a jolt of pleasure up her spine, nearly buckling her knees. 

"I'll put them on retainer if you want, but they're not invited to my bed." 

"And I need to live somewhere." She glances up at him, and watches the grin turn from bemused to sparkling with contained amusement. "We'd usually stay at the Trade Wind," she gasps, her fingers spasming clenched around his wrist. "When in Derdriu. But if I'm staying indefinitely it'll probably be cheaper to buy a house." 

"You," he says fondly, which Byleth doesn't think adds much to the discussion. His thumb flicks over her swollen clit and she jerks at the shock of sensation. "I amend my offer: Me, and room and board for you and your crew." His face softens, his forehead pressing against hers. "Them in the barracks and you in the chambers next to mine. They're nice, 'the Camelia Suite' it's called." He brushes his lips over hers. "And you'll sit to my right at every meal and every feast." 

"Mm." She parts her lips for him, letting him set the pace. He kisses her wet and slow, in rhythm to his fingers curling inside her. "Is that special?" 

"Means you're my closest," he breathes. "Most important, most trusted. My right hand." 

She tangles her hand in his hair and pulls him back into another kiss, restlessly shifting against his hand. It's good, what he's doing to her, but not quite enough to get her off. Frustration crackles along her nerves. She's so close, just a little more- 

Her breath hitches as he hits her just right. 

"You're left-handed, though," she gasps, voice unsteady. 

Claude laughs, rubbing the tip of his nose up the side of hers. 

"I'm gonna have to pull some strings, but if you want the left chair, it's yours." 

"What's - _Aah!_ " Her fingers clench in his jacket. "What's left?" 

Claude grins his most insufferable grin and withdraws his fingers, leaving her teetering and unsatisfied. 

"Left is my wife," he purrs, grin growing impossibly wider as his voice turns saccharine. "I gotta go now, I wouldn't want to be late for my _favorite_ professor's class." 

"Claude-" she warns, and the little fucker laughs, sticking his fingers in his mouth to lick her fluids off. 

"I'm sure you can figure out how to discipline me," he giggles, dodging to the side when she makes a grab for his sleeve. "Ooh, get one of those pointing sticks!" He winks. "You can spank me with it." 

Then he's out the door and slipping away without anyone seeing her standing there, half-naked, speechless and horny, listening to the bell ring assembly in the classrooms. 

In her mind, Sothis falls off her throne laughing. 

* * *

"Professor," Lorenz says to her stiffly after class later that day. He waits until the other students have filed out, Claude throwing her a lingering smile before gliding off with Hilda on his arm. During the few minutes between where he left her and she ran to the classroom with a bread roll in hand, his hair evidently had time to revert itself to its usual artful tousle rather than the genuine, lopsided bed head she'd last seen him with. 

"I am sure you know that I hold you in the highest esteem." 

Byleth raises her eyebrows in question. 

"Thank you?" 

"Because of that," Lorenz continues, face coloring, "While it may not be any of my business, I cannot stand idly by while Riegan dishonors you like this." 

That didn't take long, she thinks, keeping her face neutral. 

"What do you mean?" 

"Please," Lorenz says, a look of delicate distaste on his face. "His neck looks like a roughly handled peach. And while I prefer to stay uninformed of his… proclivities, we all know where he spent the night. A gentleman would have buttoned his collar, not paraded his love-bites around like medals." 

Byleth wills the blush away from her face. 

"So? That's his problem, not mine." Lorenz looks uncomfortable, almost squirming until Byleth takes pity on him with a sigh. "Speak, Lorenz." 

"Claude will inherit a duchy," he says in a hushed tone, "while you - however accomplished - are a commoner. Furthermore, you are a woman, and he is not." 

"I'm aware." 

Lorenz scowls for a second, glaring in the direction Claude walked off. 

"And many noblemen before him have taken liberties with propriety and suffered little in the way of consequences. Those burdens are borne by their lovers." He arches his eyebrows, voice going dry. "Or born, more often than not." 

"Ah." So that's what this is about. Hilda most have forgotten about Noble Decorum when she said that Leicester was a little more relaxed about sex. 

Lorenz pinches the bridge of his nose. "He is already facing considerable scrutiny. If he were to sire a bastard _now_ of all times…" he trails off, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead in consternation. "Professor, you are putting a lot of faith in the honor of a man who keeps reminding us what an unscrupulous scoundrel he is." 

Byleth considers, face blank as she silently watches Lorenz. It doesn't take long for him to crumple into awkwardness and start fiddling with some non-existent lint on his uniform. 

"You think he's going to get me with child and abandon me when it becomes inconvenient," she summarizes, watching Lorenz's rapidly shifting facial expressions curiously. 

"If it were you or his inheritance? _Yes!_ " he blurts before visibly collecting himself. "A man of my breeding would of course never lower himself to such callousness, but I would also not put myself or a lady I cared for in that position." 

Byleth cocks her head to the side. 

"My father raised me on his own." 

"And I wouldn't dream of criticizing his parenthood!" Lorenz interjects. "But being a widower is, ahem, quite different from being an unwed mother." 

Byleth suppresses a sigh. In the nobility, maybe, but she doubts her marital status would matter much to her should she have to cart around a baby on her own. 

"Your opinion is noted," she says. Lorenz hesitates for a moment before squaring himself up. 

"Very well," he says, posture rigid. "Please understand that the last thing I want is to be cruel to you." Silence hangs heavy between them for a second. "But you should know that he takes considerably more care with Miss Goneril's reputation than he does with yours." 

Byleth bites down whatever ugly instinct that wants to rear up at that. Claude never promised her faithfulness: she knew about Linhardt, heard rumors about Dorothea, and if she's at all surprised about Hilda it's only in how he finds the time. After last night, she knows better than to expect more from him than he's offering. 

He cares for her, she thinks. His tenderness and desire are not _lies_. But he himself doesn't seem to care very much for his emotions, using his own as leverage just as much as he is using hers. She finds she doesn't particularly care what sort of arrangement he has with any of the others: his affection is hers as long as she is useful to him, and if she understood him right this morning he values her assistance enough that he'd offer her his hand in marriage should she ask for it - though she supposes her crest in his bloodline would sweeten that deal. 

She swallows the bitterness down. He made his offer and she accepted the terms. She will have to be satisfied with that. 

"And yet," she says, turning her attention back to the conversation at hand, "you seem remarkably well-informed." 

Lorenz scoffs, crossing his arms. 

"I never claimed Hilda was discreet," he says, and Byleth finds herself snorting softly. She recalls Claude with rhinestone barrettes in his hair, listening with rapt attention to her lecture while Hilda painted his nails her signature pink. A claim, Byleth thinks. She might have unthinkingly strayed into another predator's territory. 

"Thank you, Lorenz," she says, trying to dismiss him again. Her choice is made, and while his concern comes from a good place, she doubts the validity of his conclusions. 

"Professor," he says quickly, staring stubbornly at the space just above her head. Whatever he's about to say, he has to work himself up to it. "Please know that you will always be a welcome guest at House Gloucester. Even in… delicate circumstances." 

Byleth feels something melt in her chest. Lorenz is ridiculous, yes, but underneath all that self-importance hides something genuinely kind. 

"Thank you," she says, with more warmth. 

This is a good feeling, she thinks. She has friends who care about her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [deleiterious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deleiterious/pseuds/deleiterious) for checking over at least 2/3s of this and improving it for everyone! Then I went and added Lorenz content, so any mistakes there are solely my fault.
> 
> ...I legit cannot tell if Claude has an actual teacher kink or if he's just that much of a brat.


	9. The confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I estimated this would be around 40k words in total? I was wrong. Have a monster chapter. 
> 
> More smut in this chapter, as well as some vague but disturbing mentions of violence against children. I've described it in more detail in the end notes in case you want a heads-up and what part to skip if you don't want to read that. 
> 
> I was looking back at the first chapters and realized I used to have summaries on them, and I liked that so I'm going to go back and add them in. I'm also going to title the chapters because even I don't remember what happened in what number any more.

Claude watches Byleth teach, making a cursory attempt at following the lecture even though anti-cavalry tactics in woodlands really doesn't have much of a shot at holding his attention right now. He _yearns_ , even when trying to control his wayward heart. He aches and burns with hope and dread, and if this feeling is what made his mother leave everything she knew and cross the mountains?

He gets it. 

He's never been that brave, nor that reckless and irresponsible, but after years of marveling in confused awe at the political chaos his father was willing to unleash to make her his queen? He's finally getting it. He's not sure he'd do the same, for all that his beloved madwoman of a mother tried to raise him to follow his heart, but he gets it. 

He almost wants to doodle hearts in his notebook. He'd draw _her_ if he could, but Byleth deserves better than the blank-faced stick figures with circles for tits that his talents extend to. He wonders if it would be too weird to ask Ignatz to paint her for him. 

He stops himself before he starts scribbling combinations of their names in the margin. _Claude and Byleth von Riegan_. His chicken-scratch shorthand isn't quite unreadable enough to get away with that without a cipher. He huffs a soft breath through his nose. _Khalid Eisner_. Now wouldn't that be something, he thinks with a faraway smile. 

For a brief moment, he allows himself to fantasize about a world where he's not _him_. Maybe he could really be Claude, even if that came with a title. He could make her his duchess. Leicester politics are… entertaining, most of the time. The backstabbing is usually more figurative than it is back home, and he far prefers it that way. 

He could be happy like that, he thinks, until someone figured out the deception. He wonders if he'd be tarred and feathered before being sent home in disgrace to a half-brother who'd slit his throat, or if the Alliance would save him the hassle and just execute him themselves. 

He puts down his pen and massages his temples, working backwards through his hair. So much for pleasant daydreams. Maybe Byleth would be the one to cut his head off: she'd have a strong claim to being the person most shockingly deceived, and it would be a neat move to win Derdriu's heart and secure her spot as its new ruler. 

Or maybe she'd run away with him instead. He knows how to disappear, she knows how to make a living on the road. He thinks he could be happy like that, too. 

It doesn't matter, anyway: he can never be just Claude. And Byleth never answered his question, though he supposes he can only blame himself for that. 

Class ends, and while Claude was hoping to check in with her he also doesn't want to put her in an awkward position in front of everyone. And since she has barely dismissed them before Lorenz is on his feet, hurrying over to her while shooting Claude a dirty look… He guesses he'll have to wait. 

Besides him, Hilda lifts her eyebrows meaningfully and latches her fingers around his elbow, the implication clear that she _will_ drag him if he doesn't come willingly. 

She leads him across the monastery with purposeful steps that ought to raise all kinds of red flags coming from her - he's half expecting Seteth to come running himself to investigate - and ushers him into her room. Door slammed behind her, she turns around with her back to it and the biggest grin blooming on her face. 

"Is that..?" she says, gleaming eyes fixed on his neck, and Claude smirks and tilts his head, slowly spreading his collar with a finger to show the mark off. 

Hilda squeals, jumping in the air and clapping in delight. 

"Oh my Goddess!" she shrieks, bouncing up to him and pulling his collar wider. "You _slut_ I can't believe this oh my Goddess!!" 

Claude laughs and lets himself be walked backward until his knees hit the bed and he topples onto it, pulling Hilda down to sprawl on top of him. 

"She kissed me," he says, feeling the dopey grin wrenching control of his face and prompting him to hide his out of control joy in his hands. "Holy shit! Hilda, she kissed me!" 

"I can see that!" Hilda drums her palms on his chest in her excitement before rolling off to lie at his side, resting her head on his arm. "So how far did you go? Did you fuck?" 

Claude peers out at her through his fingers and shrugs a shoulder, and Hilda shrieks with delight, kicking her feet in the air. "Oh my Goddesssss!!" 

"Not like- y'know," Claude gives up and makes a circle with the thumb and forefinger of one hand and pushes his index finger through it, causing Hilda to break into convulsive giggling. "But there was some action south of the border." 

"Close enough," Hilda wheezes through her laughter. "Goddess. I can't believe you, you magnificent lunatic. You fucked the Professor." She sits up, looking at him with wide eyes. "Isn't that, like. Illegal?" 

Claude rolls his eyes. 

"Yeah because _Rhea_ _'s_ going to fire her," he says, drawing the archbishop's name out mockingly. "She's nuts about her. She'd sooner toss me out for corrupting her dear Professor." 

Hilda raises an eyebrow. 

"She can't expel you, you're heir to the Riegan duchy. It would cause such a fuss." 

Claude snorts. 

"She could suspend my mother so I don't see why not," he says. "Though in all fairness, she kinda brought that on herself. Anyway, I meant like, toss me out of a tower or something. Maybe off the cathedral bridge." 

"Ugh," Hilda whines. "Please don't get murdered by the archbishop, my brother would freak out and make me go home." 

"Well now that _would_ be a tragedy," he says, raising an eyebrow. 

"Yes! Oh," she says, brightening. "And Lorenz would be _so annoying_ about it, can you imagine? He'd be all… Dramatically bereft, and at the same time going on and on about how he's the next leader of the Alliance." 

"I wouldn't worry too much about him," Claude says with a laugh. "Holt would have weeks to seize power while the Gloucesters were planning their outfits for my funeral." 

"Right?" Hilda's eyes sparkle. "That's the true power of the Riegan-Goneril pact. I do the fashion so you boys can focus on the politics." 

"Hey, hey, leave me out of this. I'm dead, remember?" 

"Oh, but I'll make sure you're a beautiful corpse." She sighs happily, patting his arm. "I'll even make sure the professor is dressed for the occasion. Oh, how sad, her _young, illicit heartthrob_ ," she laments, Claude snickering into his fist and pretending he's not blushing, "ripped from her so suddenly-" She stops and makes a face. "Goddess, she just lost her dad. Now I feel terrible." 

Claude sobers, pushing himself up to sitting. 

"Yeah," he says uncomfortably. "I guess I'd better live, huh? Listen, another thing…" 

"Mmm?" 

"Don't go gossiping about this, okay?" He bites his lip. "I really don't think Rhea would hit her with more than symbolic punishment, but Byleth's kinda worried-" 

"Claude!" Hilda slaps at his shoulder, looking offended. " _Of course_ I won't, I'm your friend!" Her brow relaxes, lips curling up in a teasing smile. "So she's 'Byleth' now, is she? What happened to 'Teach'?" 

Claude hesitates. 

"It feels a little odd now that we're, you know…" 

Hilda's eyebrows scale her forehead, mischief twinkling in her eyes. 

"I thought that was part of the fun for you." 

"Yeah, well." His cheeks grow warmer. "I don't want to make it weird for her." 

"Aww." She tilts against him, folding her hands together on his shoulder and propping her chin on them. "So was it good?" She grins and licks her lips suggestively. "Was it everything you dreamed of?" Claude once again loses control of his face, the happiness bubbling up through his skin and splitting his mouth in an insuppressible grin. His blush is quickly becoming a fire hazard. 

"Yeah," he says, quietly. "It was." 

Hilda squeals again, rolling back and forth against the wall like she's too excited to contain herself. Claude's cheeks are aching from how wide he's smiling. 

"I like her, Hild," he says, pulling at a thread that's coming loose on his cuff. "I really like her." 

"Yeah, duh?" Hilda says, stopping her rolling to look at him as if he's stupid. She rights herself against the wall, arranging her skirt neatly. "This stopped being one of your weird schemes months ago. You, my friend," she says, poking him in the calf with her foot, "are 100% smitten. It's so cute, aaaaand…" She flops over dramatically, peering up at him through her bangs. "I am so jealous. Or is it envious?" She pouts. "I wanna fall in love too." 

Claude considers, idly twirling a strand of her hair around his finger. "Do you particularly want to be with me or her?" 

"No." Hilda sighs. "You're…" she says, gesturing vaguely between them. "You know. We tried that. And the Professor has terrible hair." 

Claude raises an eyebrow with a wry smile. 

"Those are your criteria, huh? Good hair and not your ex?" 

Hilda's eyes flicker over his face once, a hint of vulnerability showing, before the bitch face slides back in place to cover the lapse up. 

"I think 'good hair' would exclude both of you," she retorts with a meaningful look, and Claude barks out a laugh. The corners of Hilda's lips tilt up in response. "You know, I saw her cut it with garden shears once." 

Claude snorts. 

"I'm weirdly into her whole… raised in a barn thing. Anyway," he says, shrugging. "I guess that makes it envy, then." 

Hilda squirms herself into a more comfortable position with her head against his side. 

"I think it's a little bit of both?" She sighs, fiddling with her bracelet. "You and I didn't really… _fit_ , but I guess - oh this sounds so selfish, please don't be mad - I kinda thought we'd still get married some day if nobody better came along? And I…" She chews on her lip. "Didn't really think I'd be the one getting left behind. Sorry." She blinks up at him, eyes wide and dewy with emotion. "I'm really happy for you! Just… Promise me we'll still be friends?" 

Claude smiles, crooked and soft. She's laying it on thick because that's who she is, but he thinks there's a grain of truth to it. 

"'Course we will," he says, shuffling back down to stretch out next to her and closing his eyes. "You and Teach - You know you're not… _competing_ against each other, right? Like, she's not going to critique my wardrobe or tell me the latest gossip, or sweet-talk some idiot viscount who's too distracted by her batting her eyelashes to even realize what he just agreed to." He opens his eyes, looking into hers. "You're still my best friend." A thought strikes him, and he chuckles. "And I'm sure as hell sticking around to watch _you_ fall in love, whenever that happens. I have a feeling it will be the stuff of legends." 

* * *

He leaves Hilda's room for an early dinner, hoping to get some quality snooping done while Byleth's busy at the training grounds anyway. Instead he ends up lying on a cot in the infirmary, thinking he'll blame a headache if Manuela should appear from wherever's she's gone off to, reading a book he can't focus on and waiting for Seteth to go to dinner, or the bathroom, anything - he needs one minute to set the lock up for easy picking later, that's all. 

Yet the hours pass with Seteth's zeal showing no sign of abating, until Claude finally concedes that if he wants to show himself from his best side tonight he needs to hit the baths before they close for the night. 

So there he lies, sprawled across his bed and listening to his neighbors prepare for the night. He's bathed, he's shaved, he's rubbed the last of the scent he brought from home into his pulse points. His hair looks flawless. There's nothing more to do to make himself ready, yet he can't manage to do anything else while he waits. Reading has proved as pointless as it did in the infirmary, his hyperactive brain ignoring the words to jump randomly between elation and nervousness. His homework just reminds him of Byleth. He's so wound up he can barely parse his own encrypted notes, and once he does he finds no new insights there anyway: Lysithea handed the dagger that killed Jeralt off to Manuela, and will probably curse him into next year if he dares bring it up one more time. Manuela wrote a report that is presumably in Seteth's office. Seteth, blast him, seems neither to eat or piss, and Claude's nights have been spoken for by making sure Byleth isn't alone when she wakes up screaming. 

He swallows, nerves making his mouth dry. She never answered his question, not that he gave her much opportunity. _Gods_ , he just about asked her to marry him. _Way to play it cool, ~Claude~_ , the boy he left behind when he came west and became somebody else snarks in the back of his mind. 

Finally, darkness having fallen hours ago and the sounds of the dormitory suggesting most of his fellow students have settled in for the night, he quietly makes his way down the hall and knocks on her door. 

"Hey," he says when she opens it, holding up the vial of sleeping draught as an offering, clinging to that excuse for his visit. 

"Hello," Byleth says, standing in the gap between door and door frame, her body blocking his way into the room. 

She looks conflicted. Her tells aren't big, but he's been an avid student of her face for months: the slight furrow to her brow, the faint tension around her mouth, the way the skin around her eyes seem just a little bit tight, they all tell him something is bothering her, and he's not sure what. He's been visualizing her falling joyfully into his arms, lovers reunited after being cruelly separated by the school day, and she doesn't seem inclined to fulfill that particular fantasy. 

He's not sure what to make of the way her eyes focus somewhere in the air as if she's looking at something he can't see, either. He's noticed her doing it before, but she doesn't usually do it when she knows anyone is watching. 

There are other signs that something is off, too. Normally she has already changed for bed by the time he arrives, but tonight she's dressed, albeit only in plain dark trousers and the top with the cutout that's been haunting his fantasies for months. Her hair is damp and hanging limp around her face, though he supposes that is easily enough explained by his disruption of her morning routine. 

Claude shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot, slow dread coiling in his gut. Shit. Did he fuck things up? Did he take things too far, too fast? She gave every indication that she wanted him this morning. She was normal in class, or as normal as she ever is. 

"Um," he says, feeling sweat slicking his palms. Nobody else is around, Dedue's room still and dark. At least he doesn't have to invent some academic pretext to talk to her. "Are we okay?" 

Byleth looks to his left for a long moment before she nods, finally stepping aside to let him inside her room with her attention now focused intensely on him. The silence is tense, and it doesn't take long until Claude's composure breaks and he starts to chatter to fill it. 

"So…" He rubs his neck. "I enjoyed this morning but if you don't want to do that again then that's cool." The thought of never kissing her again sits like a lead weight in his stomach, but Claude ignores it. He'll save their friendship first if he has to choose between it and the romance. "But please say something?" 

Byleth sighs, then steps right into his space to lean her cheek against his collarbone, her arms looping loosely around his waist. 

Okay. Claude carefully returns the embrace, moving slowly as he curls his arms around her. He's not sure what's happening right now, but if she wants to hug him, it's probably not that bad. 

"I don't know what I'm supposed to say," she says in a low voice. Dark eyes turn searchingly up to scan his face. 

"Ah." He deposits the vial in a pocket, his hand stroking down her arm. "There are options, certainly. How about 'good evening, you handsome devil, I can't wait to ravish you all night'?" 

Byleth's lip quirks minutely at the corner, a small victory. She shakes her head against his throat, arms tightening around him. 

"You'd like that, would you?" 

"I mean." She glances up at him and he smiles, crooked and disarming. "If you followed through on it? Definitely," he says, and Byleth's lips twitch with amusement. 

"It doesn't sound like something I'd say," she says, dropping her head back down to rest against his chest. She's listening to his heart, he realizes. "Can I just… This part I understand. I like this." 

He kneads his thumbs slowly over her lower back, stroking the bare skin between her top and her waistband. 

"Holding me?" he asks into her hair. 

"Touching you," she says, looking up to meet his eyes. There's a storm brewing behind the flat blue of her irises, whatever turmoil shaking her strong enough to spill over her edges. "I-" she says, letting him go and stepping back into the room. She pinches the bridge of her nose between two fingers, massages her eyelids. "I've never done this before," she says. "Relationships, I mean. I don't know how." Her fingertips press into her eyebrows. "The sex parts I can handle, they're not too different from sparring really, but…" She looks up at him, face haggard. "I don't know what the hell we're doing here." 

Claude reaches for her. "It's not so different from friendship," he says, fingertips pushing her bangs out of her eyes. "You figured that out well enough." 

"Mm." She nods, not meeting his eyes. "Do people usually have sex with their friends?" 

"Uhh," he hesitates. He wants to say no - He's well aware he's somehow landed himself with a little bit of a reputation: he blames Hilda, really, for a few rather public demonstrations of their affair in the first few weeks of the school year. Somehow, she still gets away with pretending to be a blushing maiden after that while _he_ is stuck being likened to Sylvain, which doesn't seem very fair when it was Hilda who shoved _him_ up against the dining hall wall - but that's not entirely accurate, given his never very serious fling with Lin. And Byleth knows about that, though few others do. Damn, Dorothea had a point about letting her know he was available, didn't she? 

But he can hardly lie to her, either. Not when he's the one she turns to whenever she comes up against something her unconventional childhood didn't prepare her for. Not when she trusts him. 

"They do sometimes," he tells her. "If they both want to, and neither of them have other commitments..." He shrugs. "Why not, you know?" 

She nods, face inscrutable. 

"Like us," she says, and Claude's heart sinks. 

"What?" he says. "No." Byleth's eyes flick back to his. "I mean-" He wets his lips, suddenly embarrassed. "We're friends, yes, but I'd like to be more than that." 

"Oh." There's an awkward silence as she mulls this over. "What about Linhardt? I thought you two were. Together." 

"That wasn't really… That _was_ a 'why not'." Byleth looks at him blankly, and Claude sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. The heat in his cheeks no doubt means that he's turning bright red. "I'm a curious sort, he's a curious sort, we… tested out a hypothesis together." Byleth looks confused, and Claude says one last goodbye to his dignity. 

"We confirmed we both like dick," he explains, eyes turned to the ceiling. "Not exclusively! And I'm 'much too stressful' to consider dating," he says, meeting her blank stare, "so you don't really have to worry about him. Although…" he draws out, weighing his own desire to make Byleth laugh against Linhardt's privacy. Fuck it, he decides with a grin, Lin says more shit he shouldn't on the daily than Claude himself in a month - a few days ago he offered Ingrid a breeding schedule to optimize her chances of crested child, and _man:_ Claude cannot stun a room into silence like that if he's trying. "If you wanna make sure, he did say he was free while the library's closed on Wednesdays and I could stop by if I did all the work, so if you wanted to schedule a private tutoring session around then or something…" 

He succeeds in his endeavor, silent laughter lighting up Byleth's face from inside. She's so lovely he can't stop himself from reaching out and cupping her face between his hands, pressing their lips together in a slow, chaste kiss. 

"And Hilda?" she mumbles against his lips in the aftermath, tipping her head into his hands to touch their foreheads together. 

"Dumped my ass before you even got here." He blinks his eyes open to find her looking at him, her eyes melting together in the middle from being far too close for his brain to make sense of. "We're close, but that ship has sailed, and neither one of us chose to get on it." He closes his eyes again and just rests against her for a moment. "I went out with Dorothea too, a few weeks ago, but that was never like that. You're kind of it for me." 

She nods, small motions of her head knocking softly against his before she pulls away. 

"It," she repeats, pacing around the carpet, her fingers digging into the muscles between her shoulder-blades. "This morning," she says, turning around to watch him with inscrutable eyes. "You never asked me what I want." 

Claude bites his lip. He didn't, did he? Too caught up in his own plans to really listen, really think about anyone else. 

"Then tell me," he says. "What do you want?" 

Her eyes close, her brow furrows. Her hands knead at her shoulders. 

"I'm not sure," she says, sighing. "I never had to want things before. And now… I want so much. I _feel_ so much, and I don't know what to do with it all." She makes a noise of frustration, hands moving up to work at her neck. Claude stays where he is, watching her pace. "I- don't want you to graduate." She shakes her head, glaring at the floorboards and ignoring Claude's lifted eyebrows. "No, that's not it. I don't want you to leave. I want all of us to stay together." 

"The Deer?" 

She nods quickly, hands fisting in the hair at the back of her neck. 

"So that's one reason to go to Derdriu. I'll see you that way, and - I assume the other nobles come to the capital sometimes?" 

Claude nods, taking a few steps to the right to lean against the edge of her desk. Her face is as famously blank as ever, even when the agitation is practically dripping off her. 

"The Roundtable meets four times a year, more if anything happens. I expect them all - save Hilda, but she'll come for the shops and the parties - to start accompanying their families as soon as we graduate." 

She turns on her heel and taps her fist into her palm in thought. 

"You could hire Raphael." 

"I- guess?" He chews on his lip and crosses his arms. "He's a good guy. If you want him around, sure." 

Byleth waves him to silence. 

"Leonie might accept a contract with the company - I could train them both. Does your family do business with Ignatz's?" 

"Byleth." 

"I don't want to lose him, Claude, he still has a ways to go." 

"Okay," he says with a shrug, pushing himself up to sit on the tabletop. "The Victors are a pretty big merchant house, they trade with everyone. I'm sure they can be persuaded into having a permanent representative at the ducal court. But By." 

She stops pacing and finally looks at him, and Claude feels like some invisible fist is squeezing his lungs. He holds her gaze and takes a deep breath for courage before the plunge. 

"What about me?" he asks, and Byleth frowns. 

"You live there," she says, brow furrowing deeper. "You said we'd be in the rooms next to each other." 

"Yeah." He picks at the loose thread on his sleeve, unraveling the no doubt expensive golden weave. "Look. If you want to go to Derdriu and bring the Deer together there instead, and take a job as my retainer and maybe also fuck my brains out now and then, I can work with that." He chews on his bottom lip, watching her watch him. "But I asked if you want to be with me, like, as a couple. Do you?" 

Byleth looks down into the carpet. When she looks up again to meet his eyes, determination is written across her face. 

"There's one more person I want to ask about." 

Claude's pulse thuds heavy in his ears. 

"Who?" he asks. 

Byleth steps closer, into his space, her hands resting lightly on his knees. 

"Me," she says in a low voice, and his heart jolts. 

Claude looks up at her, reading the uncertainty plain in her face. Her soft voice contrasts starkly with the way she's hovering between his knees just at the edge of truly intimate, her fingers curling into the fabric of his pants like she can't help herself from touching. Sitting like this, he's a little bit shorter than she is, looking up into her too serious face. 

"Teach," he whispers. "You're…" His stomach jitters with butterflies. "I-" His eyes flicker away from her, skittering over her boots standing at the foot of her neatly made bed, the fresh candle burning on her nightstand, the sword that still haunts him with its potential standing propped up in a corner. 

He wets his lips, gathering his courage. She wants him, that much is obvious. He just has to say the words. 

"I think," he says, swallowing before continuing. He looks up into her eyes, brings up everything he has to pour it into the connection between their gazes. "That you're the answer to all the things I never prayed for." Her eyes are wide, her lips slack and looking so, so soft. "I think that fate brought us together." He breathes once, through his nose, and dares venture out on untested ground, to where he himself isn't sure where infatuation ends and something deeper begins. It's what she needs to hear, he thinks, even if he's not quite sure it's true yet. 

He thinks it will be. 

"I think," he says, voice hoarse, "that I love you." Her fingers tremble against the top of his knees. "And if you'll stand with me, I'll do everything in my power to help you uncover your secrets, avenge your father, anything you want. I promise." 

She stares into his eyes for a second, her eyes wide and flat and blue. 

Then she nods, once, businesslike, and offers him her pinkie. 

Claude breaks down in relieved laughter, pulling her in by their curled fingers as soon as the deal is sealed, holding her tight and burying his face in the crook of her shoulder. 

"Claude?" she asks, voice soft. She pulls back, her fingers alighting on his cheek, the tips of them curling into the sensitive spots just under his jaw. "Can I kiss you?" 

He smiles at her, part of him reeling at the emotions flickering over her face. Love. Longing. Lust. He swallows, mouth suddenly dry. 

"Lock the door," he says. 

Byleth backs up to it, eyes never leaving him. The latch slides shut with an audible click in the silence. Claude feels goosebumps rise on his skin. 

"Now?" she asks, stepping back in between his legs. Her pupils are huge, making her eyes seem dark and bottomless. She's staring at him like she wants to eat him alive. Or perhaps, like a well trained dog waiting for the command to pounce, and him simultaneously her master and her prey. 

It's intoxicating. 

"Anytime," he breathes, and Byleth's hands fist in his collar, holding him still as she pours herself into their kiss. 

There's no hesitation left in her now, her hands sure and unhesitant as they roam over his body, Claude eagerly submitting to her every whim. He helps her when she gets stuck on one of the clasps on his coat, moaning in encouragement when she reaches inside it and tugs his shirt out of his waistband, her hands hot as they skim up his sides underneath it. Her hands slide around his back, tugging him closer, one of them immediately moving up to grab his hair. 

Her mouth latches onto his neck and he gasps, toes curling in his boots. He's had to hide one or two untimely reactions on the training grounds when she's demonstrated just how easily she can manhandle him, and like this, body flush against hers and her fingers twisted in his hair, pulling his head back just hard enough that it would hurt if he resisted, he has nowhere to hide the situation developing in his pants. 

Byleth looks up at him from where she's just finished sucking a mark into his collar bone, face blank but amusement dancing in her eyes, and drags the index finger of her free hand down the growing line of his cock, bunched up tight in the confines of his underwear. 

Claude lets his eyes fall closed with a groan. He'd probably be halfway to dry-humping her if he wasn't so effectively pinned in place. 

"You enjoy this," she muses, gently squeezing him through the fabric. Claude gasps, fingers fisting in the back of her shirt. "When I'm a little rough with you." She leans in to press a whisper of a kiss against the apple of his throat, his shiver making a hint of a grin curl over her lips. "I think you might have been serious when you asked me to spank you." 

"You know me," he says on a breathy laugh. "I'm always serious, especially when I'm kidding." He grins, sighing with pleasure at the line of kisses she's trailing up the side of his neck, tickling as she reaches his hairline. "Did you get a pointing stick?" 

She snorts, fondly this time. 

"Not much of a punishment if you're begging for it." 

"Oh?" he purrs. "I'm getting punished now?" 

"You _did_ leave me hanging this morning," she says, her hands slipping inside his coat at the shoulders and peeling it off him. Claude helps her shrug it down his arms. "And you're going to pull so many weeds for that." 

He barks a laugh, shaking his wrists free of the sleeves, and a heavy epaulet lands on her inkwell and knocks it over. It's stoppered, but it nearly rolls off the desk before he manages to catch it, still wet ink leaving black smears over his palm. Byleth allows herself one lingering suck on his lower lip before pulling away, grabbing a rag from her washbasin and dabbing at his stained skin. 

"What happened here?" she asks, fingertip trailing the long scar that bisects his palm. It's usually barely visible - his father's surgeon is a master of his craft - but the ink is outlining every swirl of his fingerprints and the raised line of scar tissue stands like a dam wall, stopping the spreading ink from reaching into the other half of his palm. Byleth finds the matching scars on his fingers, following them from index to middle to ring finger. 

Claude clears his throat, mouth suddenly dry. 

"Tried to grab a dagger," he says, looking to the side. He motions at his forearm, where jagged gashes have long since healed over and been skillfully cut into sections that almost manage to blend in with the lines of his muscles. "It didn't work." 

Byleth's curiosity shifts into horror. 

"These are old," she says, studying the scars. 

Claude sighs. He is hoping to be naked in her arms in the near future, it's not like he's going to be able to keep the scars hidden then. 

"Most of that's just the one scar," he says, catching her hand and moving it away. His nerves are messed up around them; having the scars touched is a weird and unpleasant feeling. "It had to be cut into pieces as I grew." 

Byleth nods. "Mine too," she says, suddenly pulling her shirt over her head without a trace of either modesty or coquetry. Claude, momentarily stunned out of his beginning spiral into bad memories, blinks at her breasts settling and tries not to gawk. She's not stripping to entice him, he can read her that well, but that doesn't mean he's not affected by having her tits suddenly shoved in his face without warning. 

"I remember this being so tight I couldn't stand up straight," she says, parting her breasts and letting him see the thick cord of silvery pale skin trailing down between them. The scar has been sliced through at regular intervals, making it almost look like a seam threaded through her skin instead of the cleverly placed incisions on his own arms. "I must have been… five, maybe six. My father said it was time I learnt to drink like a mercenary." 

She laughs softly, eyes far away. "The entire company was toasting me and pretending to lose to me in arm wrestling." The look on her face is soft, nostalgic, and he thinks he'd do anything to protect it. She remembers so little: this is precious to her. "I was sick as a dog when I woke up on the medic's cot, but even though these cuts hurt what I remember most is being able to stretch my back out again." 

Claude smiles. His parents hadn't drunk him under the table, but making a child who had already been poisoned once accept sedation had been a challenge in itself. 

"Yeah," he says quietly, reaching for her hand and absently running his thumb over her knuckles. "I couldn't bend my left arm for a while. That's how I learnt to write with my right hand too." He nods at her chest. "Did Rhea do that?" 

Byleth shrugs. 

"I suppose? I've had it as long as I can remember." She looks up to his eyes for a second before dropping her gaze to the scars along his arms. 

"You were young," she says in a distant voice, grabbing him by the wrist and the elbow, tilting his forearm in the light. "But not that young. I've seen wounds like this before, but never on anyone who had a chance to heal from them." She blinks up at him. "You defended yourself." 

"Not very well," Claude says, biting his lips into a narrow, painful line. He hikes his shirt up, letting her see the three pale lines scattered below and to the left of his bellybutton. "I think my screaming saved me if anything. That and my crest." 

Byleth looks pained. Her hand curls around the nape of his neck, bringing him close to rest her brow against his. 

"How old were you?" she asks in a low voice. 

"Seven," he replies. "My… tutor," he corrects himself quickly, well aware that your average seven-year-old does not have an astronomy teacher. "She… Her kids-" His breath catches in his chest. He's never been able to forget the anguish in her face as she begged for his forgiveness, never her own life, or the crunch of her neck as his axe bit into it. The hot spray of blood across his face when his father stepped up the scaffold and finished the job he was too weak to carry through. 

She had been kind to him. Her own children had been found floating down the river a few days after her failure. If his father had let her live, he thinks, her loyalty would have been absolute. 

"Nevermind," he says, banishing the memory. "I lived." He pulls back from her embrace, tugging his shirt off completely to twist around and reach for the long scar that trails down his ribs on the left side of his back. "Got this from my history teacher when I was twelve. I think that if you were to stab me too, I might just give up on education." 

Byleth cocks her head, one side of her mouth quirking up in the little smirk he's seen her experimenting with lately. It's cute. 

"If I did stab you," she says with utmost confidence, "you would be dead." 

Claude grins and pulls her into a hug. A romantic she is not. 

"That wasn't supposed to be funny" Byleth says as he giggles into her hair. "I won't stab you, I promise: that was just my professional opinion-" 

"I know," Claude says, pressing his nose into her neck, unable to suppress the happiness bubbling up and taking control of his face. He presses a kiss just underneath her ear. "I trust you," he whispers, letting his breath fan over her neck and delighting in the way she shivers. "Now that that particular childhood trauma has been attended to," he says, reaching up to tangle his fingers in the dark mass of her hair, pulling her head to the side. Byleth presses up closer against him, her fingers curling in the fabric at his hips. "Wanna get back to the good part?" he whispers, lips brushing her neck. 

Byleth leans back, shaking her hair free with a slow smile spreading over her face. Her fingernails scratch lightly through the hair at his nape when she leans in to kiss him again. 

"Bed?" he murmurs against her lips when she pulls back, and she nods. Claude grins and locks his ankles together behind her legs. "Think you can carry me there?" 

Byleth gives him a blank look. 

"Yes?" 

"It would be kinda hot," he says, winding his arms around her shoulders. Nobody's ever carried him before. Hilda _could_ , he's sure, but she prefers to pretend she couldn't. 

Byleth's hands hook under his ass and then he's hoisted up against her, his thighs instinctively clenching around her hips as he whoops in delight. She snorts against his throat and presses a kiss to the hollow between his collarbones, carrying him the few steps across the room before unceremoniously dumping him on the bed, making his mother's ring bounce on its chain and smack him in the chin. Then Byleth is on him, her leg swinging over his body to straddle his hips, and Claude's head falls back with a punched-out moan when she grinds down against his crotch. 

"About your punishment," she says in his ear, a hint of a growl in her voice. Claude's lips curl up into a grin. 

"Yeah?" he says, shifting to lie more comfortably under her and folding his arms behind his head. "Do I get to pick something more fun than chores?" 

"You get a chance to make it up to me," she says, hips moving against him. "With interest." 

Claude smirks, grinding back against her and making her wobble on her perch. He pulls his hands free and settles them on her hips, tilting them forward enough that he can press up against her clit, Byleth's head falling forward in response, her face masked behind a screen of falling hair. 

"I'll take that challenge," he says. "Did you, ah." He wets his lips. "Take any precautions?" 

"What?" she pushes some hair out of her face, her other hand snaking between them to gently squeeze his cock through his trousers. His eyes close of their own accord, a groan punching its way out of his throat. Gods, but she has a way about her that makes him feel like he's floating. "Oh." She's working his buttons open, Claude obediently lifting his hips to let her push his trousers down his thighs. His cock is tenting his underwear, nudging snug against the join of her crotch and thigh. "No." 

He could put a child in her, he thinks dizzily. She'd probably let him, and what a way to bind her to his side. All the lectures his parents ever sat him down for on the topic were about not letting some girl snare _him_ that way, not the other way around. 

Above him, Byleth is slipping out of her pants with unceremonious efficiency. His hands skim the pale skin revealed, carefully skirting a large brown and yellow-mottled bruise on her thigh. Her panties are plain and black, the crotch a shade darker with how her wetness is seeping through the fabric. He brushes his fingers over the stain, making her breath hitch in her throat. 

He _wishes_ he was that much of an asshole. 

"I'm a little young to be a father," he murmurs, fingers pulling that final piece of clothing covering her to the side. 

"Oh," she sighs as his finger circles her clit, her knees tightening against his sides like she's afraid of being thrown off. "Do you - fuck, there! Can you just…" She gasps, bracing herself on his chest. Claude grins, watching her face flush as he experiments with light touches and firm, figuring out just how wide a margin he should give the sensitive bud between her lips. _There._ Like that: Byleth's eyes lose focus, her mouth falling open. His other hand ventures lower, teasing the slick folds around her opening. Gods, she's wet. 

"Can I what..?" he asks, smug amusement thick in his voice. 

"Can you- what you did this morning." She gasps, rolling her hips against his hand, pressing herself down to envelop his fingers. He pulls them back, grinning, only letting her have him to the first knuckle no matter how much she squirms. "Please," she mumbles, shifting tactics to try to rub herself against his straining cock instead, her cunt leaving wet stains on his tented underwear. 

" _Fuck_ ," he gasps when she manages to angle herself onto him, the very tip of his cock slipping inside her. His body rebels against his mind then, hips thrusting up into that tight, slick heat, only stopped when the thin weave of his soaked underwear runs out of slack. "By," he whines into her chest, unsure when exactly he sat up. He can feel her pulse beating around the head of his cock, made all the more surreal by the stillness in her chest. 

"I want this," she pleads, rolling her hips over the meager inch of him inside her. Her hand fumbles at the fabric covering him, finds the slit down the center of the garment and slips inside, stroking his shaft in rhythm to her movement. 

It takes all the discipline he has to urge her off him, panting like she's just put him through his paces in the sparring ring. 

"Soon," he promises, lavishing kisses over her chest, the top of the scar between her breasts, up to the hollow of her throat and her collarbone. Her fingers squeeze around the base of his shaft, making his head spin with dazed lust. 

"Fuck," he mutters, squirming himself free from under her in a well-executed grappling escape. His pants tangle around his knees as he scrambles off the bed, pulling her after him until he's kneeling on the floor, Byleth perched just on the edge of the mattress in front of him. 

Their eyes meet. Byleth's chest is heaving, hair hanging disheveled around her face, eyes wild. He's probably not looking much saner. 

She reaches out a trembling hand and slides it over his cheek, back behind his ear to curl into his hair. Claude rests his forehead just under her bellybutton, panting against her mound as his fingers slide under her panties at her hips, inching them down. Byleth's hips lift off the bed to let him slip them down her thighs, her breath hitching when he leans in to taste her. 

His tongue presses against her cunt, spreading her with his fingers as he laps at her clit, Byleth's breath escaping her in unsteady gasps. Her fingers pet weakly through his hair, her head fallen back where she's propped up on one elbow above him. She spreads her legs wider, hooking them over his shoulders when he guides them there with his hands. 

She whimpers with relief when he slides two fingers inside her, feeling his way back to the spongy patch on her walls that made her cross-eyed this morning. 

"Good?" he asks, curling his fingers up firmly, delighting in the way every press pulls a new sound from her throat. She doesn't answer him, just stares blankly down the line of her body at him. Claude grins and flicks the tip of his tongue over her clit. Her legs tighten around him as she groans, her hand fisting in his hair and pressing him tighter against her. 

She doesn't relax her grip until she is shuddering into ecstasy under his mouth, her cunt squeezing his fingers with every shockwave that courses through her. He looks up when she's finished shaking, her thighs falling lax to either side of him. 

"I could go on," he offers, admiring the dazed look on her face. She twitches when he brushes his lips over her clit. "I will if you don't stop me. Interest and all." 

She doesn't answer save for a slight whine, so he shrugs and dips his head back down. She keens softly as he seals his mouth over her clit, suckling gently, but she makes no effort to close her legs, sprawled out on her back and watching him through slitted eyes with the heels of her hands pressed against her forehead. Her groan is loud when he starts slowly fucking her on his fingers, three of them fitting snug in the slippery clench of her dripping pussy. 

Her second orgasm is slower, softer somehow. She rides it out on one long moan, her hips thrusting back against his aching hand. 

"Enough," she mumbles, pushing him away with a soft bop of her foot against his shoulder. There are traces of blood on his fingers when he slips them out of her. 

"You're bleeding," he says, toeing out of his boots and the trousers still bunched around his thighs before climbing back on the bed to lie next to her stricken form. "Does it hurt?" Her hand reaches down to prod at herself, one of her eyes blinking blearily open to inspect her fingers. 

"No," she decides, letting her hand drop limply to her sheets. It leaves a faint pink stain on the white fabric. "Feels like a blister," she says, voice distorted by a yawn. "I thought that was normal for a first time?" 

Claude shrugs a shoulder. He doesn't remember Hilda bleeding, but that's nobody else's business. 

"Sorry, anyway," he says, shifting closer to her to touch his lips to the top of her shoulder, just where the collarbone ends. Byleth grunts softly. Her eyes are closed again. Claude wonders if she's about to fall asleep on him. 

Punishment indeed. He reaches down to push his underwear down below his balls, sighing as his neglected cock slips free from confinement. A couple slow strokes is enough to bring it back to full hardness. He squeezes himself, toes curling at the sensation, pressing the bridge of his nose against her skin. 

She doesn't react. 

Claude studies her dozing face. She's cute like this, waking some protective instinct in him, but he'd really like some assistance with his own predicament here. 

He presses his lips to the ball of her shoulder, letting his lips smack a little as he releases the kiss. Byleth makes a vague noise, her hand searching in his general direction until she finds his thigh, tucking her fingers between it and the mattress. She hums in contentment, a small pleased smile curling her lips. 

"Hey sleepyhead," he murmurs, propping himself up on an elbow to look at her. "Are you forgetting something?" 

"Hmm..?" Her eyes stay closed, but something about the curl of her lips speaks of slightly more awareness, the face of someone recovering from being fucked insensible and now messing with him instead. "This isn't class, Claude," she mumbles, peeking out at him from under her eyelashes. "You don't have to wait for the bell to leave." 

_Oh is that it_ . 

He stares at her in mock outrage, mouth a perfect circle, and Byleth erupts into chortles, curling into him to hide her face in his chest. The arm snaking around his waist suggests she doesn't actually want him to leave. 

He waits for her to finish laughing, watching her with a crooked smile. Her hair is a mess, tangled strands strung all across her face. He combs the worst of it out of her eyes and tries to tuck a few strands behind her ear, ending up with a particularly aggressive snarl puffing up ridiculously over her ear. 

His infatuation must be worse than he thought, because the sight fills him with joy. 

"So how's that for a down-payment?" he asks, and she stretches leisurely, like a well-fed cat sunning itself after a good meal. 

Her finger pokes him lightly in the breastbone. 

"And here I thought you were sharp," she murmurs, that small smirk back on her face. "Always set down the terms beforehand, Riegan." Her fingers walk down his chest, finding and following the trail of hair that grows down the centerline of his stomach. "Otherwise," she says, the pad of her index finger tapping softly at the sensitive tip of his cock. Claude groans weakly, twitching under her touch. "I might just keep you in debt indefinitely." 

"Oh," he breathes as she nudges him onto his back, climbing atop him to sit across the top of his thighs. Her hand wraps around him, stroking him firm and slow. His breath hitches in his chest. "Sneaky," he manages, losing all control of his vocal faculties when she grins, all battlefield confidence, and spits right at his cock, the wetness slicking the slide between her palm and his shaft. 

He helped her jerk him off quickly and efficiently this morning. This time is nothing like that. She takes her time, experimenting and watching his reactions, Claude shivering underneath her and sometimes begging for mercy, sometimes for more. His fingers lock tight in the rumpled sheets, holding on with fraying control as she slowly drives him to desperation. When he finally comes it is with one hand clamped over his mouth, muffling the noises he can't stop himself making. 

Byleth brings her hand up and curiously licks his seed off her fingers, Claude groaning long and low into her pillow at the sight. His cock throbs with his heartbeat, oversensitive, his skin twitching when she wipes the worst of the mess off his belly with a damp rag. 

"You're still wearing this," she says some interminable time later when she settles back next to him, all light in the room save the single taper on her nightstand extinguished. She fishes the ring up from where it's settled against the side of his neck, watching the candlelight sparkle in the emerald. "I thought it was a prop for your card games." 

Claude blinks slowly at her, trying to pull his wits back in from where she's scattered them across the room. 

"It really is my mother's," he says at last, closing his fingers around hers to tilt the stone his way. _The same color as our eyes_ , she'd said when she'd given it to him. _My friends will know you by it_. The corner of his mouth curls up wryly at the memory. _Oh Mother, ye of little faith_. Judith hadn't needed a damn ring to recognize her best friend's son when she'd seen him. 

"What if you had lost it?" Byleth asks, and Claude smirks sleepily. 

"I wouldn't have." He brings their joined hands up to his mouth, kisses her knuckles. "I don't risk things I care about without a backup plan." 

She studies him for a moment before laying her head down on his chest, pulling her hand free to curl that arm around his waist. 

"Do you have one for me?" she asks, making a crooked smile pull at his lips. His eyebrows rise as he recalls them all. 

"I have dozens," he says, slowly stroking her back. "Hey," he says, changing the subject before she makes him go into them and the way his heart stops every time she throws herself in front of one of the Deer, surviving only by the mystical way she seems to know just what the enemy will do next. "I almost forgot the sleeping draught." 

"Oh," she mumbles against his skin. "Okay." He tries to get out of bed, aiming for where his coat lies rumpled on the floor next to her desk, but Byleth holds him back with her arms locked around his torso and her face pressed into his chest. "I want you to stay," she says, so low he can barely pick out the words. 

Claude goes lax and lets her pull him back. 

"I'll stay anyway," he assures her. "As long as you want me to." His brow furrows. "Have you been drinking it just to keep me here?" 

Byleth nods against his chest. 

"I think it makes my dreams worse," she says. "But it's better than being alone." 

"I…" he says, faltering. Guilt curls uncomfortably in his gut: he's woken from his slumber a dozen times at least to her tossing and turning in her sleep. Her whimpers were hard to listen to then, but cuts far deeper with this new insight. He was trying to help. "You don't have to," he says, kissing her hair. "Please, next time: just tell me what you want?" 

Byleth looks up at him, her eyes sad, haunting in their loneliness. She smiles, as if trying to comfort him when she's the one who's hurting. 

"You can't give it to me," she says. "But thank you for wanting to." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warning:**  
>  Claude was stabbed twice as a child, and was forced to behead one of his assailants (whom he knew and liked) himself. He has scars down his arms from trying to fend them off, and those scars had to be cut apart as he grew older to allow him to grow. He also has scars on his stomach and on his back, though those aren't discussed as much. Byleth has her scar from Rhea putting a rock over her heart, which also had to be surgically loosened. If you'd rather skip that part, jump from where they knock over an inkwell to the phrase “If I did stab you,” she says with utmost confidence, “you would be dead.”  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> Do remember that fics are fueled by reader interaction and comments make me cry happy tears <3


	10. The doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth wants to believe him. 
> 
> She doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just kept adding content to my outline of this chapter until it was huge and beginning to lose cohesion, so after some advice from friends I decided to split it up. The good news is that most of the next one is already written so I hope to takeless than six weeks before next one. 
> 
> Iris, Wearwind: You are my guiding stars. Thank you <3

She wakes to Claude stretched out along her side, one eye watching her lazily and the other buried in the pillow. 

“Morning,” he whispers, smiling, then walks his fingers up her arm. It tickles, and she catches his offending hand and rolls herself underneath it to settle against him back to chest. 

“Hey,” she says, turning her face to accept a kiss, which turns into two, interrupted by a yawn, then three. “What time is it?” 

“Not too late,” he murmurs against her lips, pressing himself up to flip on top of her, bracing his weight on his elbows on either side of her. “We have a little time before I need to make my grand escape.” 

They kiss like that for a while, soft and languid, the frenzy that possessed her last night still slumbering, until the first bell rings and Claude slowly pulls back from her, licking his swollen lips. 

“I should head back to my room before anyone sees me like this.” 

Byleth tugs at a lock of his hair and grins. 

“Your reputation would never recover,” she says, fingers combing through the ruin of his artfully careless hair. Some of it is pasted flat to his temple where he’s been sleeping on it, whatever greasy substance he uses to tame it leaving her fingers tacky and sweet-smelling. Other locks have escaped in wild exuberance, curls pointing every which way. 

Claude cocks an eyebrow and picks at a strand of her hair, lifting it up to display the knot it has tangled itself into. 

“Glass houses, By,” he says, pecking a kiss to the tip of her nose before pushing off of her to slip out of the bed, picking up some of the clothes lying scattered across her floor. 

She sits up, watching him. It’s funny, she thinks: Yesterday morning, she touched him for the first time then didn’t know what to do with her hands, where to turn her eyes. Today, she can sit here watching the muscles in his back flex as he moves and… it’s allowed. So simply, he’s hers. 

“I think people already suspect,” she states, rising to her feet. She doesn’t miss Claude’s eyes roving over her as she stretches, limbering up her shoulders for the day and perhaps putting on a little bit of a show. 

She’s his, too, she thinks as he sweeps back into her space, spinning her around as if dancing. 

“Suspect is not the same as know.” He grins, winking. “Admit nothing. The church will have to intervene if we flaunt it in their faces, but that means they have to own up to yet again having failed in their chaperoning duties, and I suspect they’d rather not. Besides,” he says, tone dry, “your sex life is not politics and my virtue or lack thereof doesn’t much affect my prospects. They only really care about the noble girls’ reputations.” 

Byleth frowns. That doesn’t seem fair. 

“What about Hilda?” she asks. 

“Eh.” Claude shrugs. “She knows she’s enough of a catch to get away with it. She’d probably run into some opposition if she tried to marry Dimitri, but… Can you imagine that match? Poor guy. But for someone like, say, Ingrid?” He raises an eyebrow wryly. “All she’d need to get out from under her father’s thumb is one little scandal, and she could go her knightly way. Marrying her off wouldn’t be nearly as lucrative a prospect for him.” 

Byleth considers. It’s not her place, she decides. The way Ingrid is torn between her dreams and her duty is tragic to watch, but it has to be her own choice to make. 

Claude looks at her for a moment while Byleth stands lost in thought, then pinches her rear hard enough that it makes her squeak. 

He laughs as he skips out of reach of her flailing grip, picking his shirt up from the floor. “I’ll just have to refrain from doing that in public and we’ll be fine.” 

Byleth leans down to pick up her underwear, then tilts her head in thought. 

“Will we be able to in Derdriu?” she asks, taking in the way his face changes. A slight furrow between his eyebrows, his bottom lip going soft and slack. 

“Well — that’s up to you, really,” he says, gaze dipping to the floor before finding hers again. “It’s not me people will scorn if it becomes known.” 

She sighs. 

“Because I’m a woman,” she states matter-of-factly, pulling up her trousers. 

Claude shrugs one shoulder, adjusting his coat before fastening it together. 

“And a commoner,” he says, taking the few steps across the carpet to her. His breath ghosts onto her face, his fingertips splayed over the swell of her hips. His thumbs rest against bare skin over her waistband. “I’m yours, I promise. But the heir to the duchy can’t take a mistress without people gossiping. And… If you do have your eyes on that left chair we were talking about, it will take some time to sell you as a feasible match for me.” 

“How long?” 

He sighs, stepping away from her to attempt to fix his hair in the reflection from her shuttered window. She shrugs her shirt on. 

“Couple years, probably. Your crest will help.” He chuckles, winking at her in the glass. “Any military triumphs you feel like throwing in my lap as well.” He twists to look at her, his hair looking if not stylish then at least not laughable. “It’s your call. We can play this totally behind locked doors or tell everyone with an opinion to go screw themselves while we skinny dip in a fountain, it’s up to you.” 

Byleth can’t help but smile at the mental image. 

“It won’t hurt you if it gets out?” she asks. 

“Nah.” His lip curls in resentment. “It’s proof I’m not gay, the old man would be over the moon.” 

She walks up behind him, squeezing his shoulder. 

“That bothers you?” she asks, trying to read his expression. 

“It’s…” he scrubs his hair out of his face. “I hate that people have so many _opinions_ on things that are none of their business.” He huffs out a frustrated breath, leaning the base of his palms on the ledge below the window. “There was this stablehand working in the palace stables when I moved in. He was — friendly. And very good-looking, and in charge of my horse.” He sighs, meeting her eyes over his shoulder. “Nothing happened, he probably thought I was just a cute little kid, but — the old man caught me looking, and that was enough to get the poor guy sent off to make a living elsewhere.” Dry amusement twists his mouth, one eyebrow climbing. “I’m pretty sure he’s been hiring actual courtesans to tend my horse ever since, they’re _far_ too pretty and keep talking about riding in this certain _tone_ , you know?” 

She snorts. 

“They mean fucking,” she supplies, confident from long association with mercenaries, and Claude laughs. 

“Gee Teach, what would I do without you to explain these things?” he asks, shaking his head in amusement. “Anyway, my point is: some people know or suspect I like men, and they can’t seem to believe that I like women too, it doesn’t _matter_ to me—” He crosses his arm across his chest, fingers tangling with hers atop his shoulder. His eyes are troubled when he meets hers in the reflection. “And I don’t want you thinking you’re… Second best, or some sort of compromise.” 

She urges his face towards her with a finger on his chin, kissing him, feeling him turn in the circle of her arms to embrace her. 

“I won’t,” she promises. “And let them talk. I don’t care what they say.” 

He bends his neck to rest his forehead against hers. 

“If you do want to marry me, it’ll be easier to make it happen if it stays at rumors,” he says, voice low. “Our friends can know, but not the public. And… it’s gonna be tricky if you get pregnant. The old man’s going to be a lot more inclined to sending you off somewhere out of sight than accepting you into the family.” 

She nods. 

“I’m going to talk to Manuela today. I know there are ways to prevent it, but I never learned the details.” 

Claude presses one quick peck to her lips. 

“Hilda mentioned something too,” he says, pulling away. “Bishop’s… something. I know a very discreet herbalist, do you want me to see if he can get any? And…” he draws out, watching her thoughtfully. “If you’re stopping by Manuela…” His brow furrows and Byleth watches him quizzically. 

“What.” Whatever he’s going to say, she can clearly see him trying to phrase it in the way that makes her most likely to agree. It irks her. 

“So, total change of subject:” he says, clapping his palms together. His face looks apologetic. “Sorry. Monica’s dagger. Manuela examined it, and it was evidently interesting enough for a whole sheaf of papers on what she found, but I don’t seem to be privy to that information. You, on the other hand…” 

Byleth swallows, looking to the floor. With effort, she pushes the sense-memory of her father’s blood off her hands, the smell of it out of her nose. Deep breath. She can smell Claude, both the fragrant stuff he rubs into his hair and the scent of his skin underneath it. Her weapon oil, and the sweat on the linens from last night. Her hands are dry and clean. 

“You want to know, don’t you?” he coaxes. 

She nods slowly. It makes sense, the thought just… repels her. She wants nothing to do with the weapon that took her father from her. 

“It could help us find them, and teach us to counter it if someone else gets hit with a weapon like that.” 

“Of course,” she says, bringing her neutral voice to the forefront. If she accepts before he starts pressuring her, she won’t have to go through him overriding her refusal like he did with her father’s diary again. 

He was _just_ talking about wanting to marry her, she reminds herself. He’s not just using her for secrets, he does want to be with her. 

_As long as he gets to deny it whenever it becomes inconvenient_ , that uncharitable voice in her mind remarks. The pit in her stomach echoes, the lid she’s placed on it sagging under the weight of her doubt. 

_No_ , she growls back at the voice, refusing it. She _will_ believe in him. 

* * *

She wanders up the stairs to the second floor during the second class block of the afternoon, when the students are focusing on their specialties and the amount of people who could interrupt is limited. Claude is her only student of the sword this week, and he’d graciously let her off with a waggle of his eyebrows and a request for a more private session at a later time. Manuela greets her from where she’s working at her desk, and Byleth, knowing the corridor outside is currently empty, gets right to the point. 

“How do I fuck a man without getting knocked up?” she asks, and Manuela drops both her jaw and her pen. Byleth didn’t know the woman could blush. 

“That’s… well…” Manuela stammers, getting to her feet and ushering Byleth into the room. “Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?” she asks, pushing Byleth down into a chair without waiting for an answer. 

“Will the tea stop it?” she asks curiously as Manuela swings the kettle off the hook over the hearth. 

“NO.” Manuela tosses some leaves from a jar into an unwashed teapot to steep, hurriedly gathering up the cold remains of a meal scattered over the table. Byleth studies the leftovers. Not old enough to be likely to bother her stomach, toughened by a long life on the road. Her constitution can probably stand up to the tea as well, then. At least the cup placed in front of her appears clean. “I wish it were that easy. No,” Manuela continues. She opens a jar with little crumbly biscuits in them and slips one into her mouth, chewing at one side while talking with the other. “Well then: Is your cycle regular?” 

“I suppose?” 

Manuela regards her through eyes narrowed with suspicion, jaw moving as she chews. 

“Do you actually track it?” 

Byleth tilts her head in question. 

“It’s never gotten away from me,” she says seriously. “Though I suppose the blood trail would be rather easy to follow if it did.” 

Manuela blinks at her for a second, then sputters a laugh, crumbs spilling from her lips. 

“Not like that,” she giggles, plopping another biscuit into her mouth. “You need to keep careful track of the number of days for this to work. Is it at least roughly once a month?” 

Byleth shrugs a little. 

“I think so?” She’s never paid too much attention to it: she’s always been able to feel it coming a couple days in advance, and that has been enough to stay on top of it. “I thought there were herbs?” She thinks back on what Claude had said. “Bishop something?” 

“Bishop’s lace,” Manuela says. “One of the more effective ones, but not so effective I haven’t had to help a girl or two out of a tight spot after having relied on it.” She pours a little bit of tea and inspects the color. Evidently satisfied, she fills Byleth’s cup ahead of her own. “It doesn’t hurt to have some on hand, it can be taken after the fact to reduce the likelihood should you suffer a lapse of judgment.” She grimaces. “If nothing else, the taste will make you wiser next time. But don’t make the mistake of thinking it makes you immune.” She looks at Byleth dryly over the rim of her cup. “Life tends to find a way.” 

Byleth sips her tea. 

“So what do you do?” she asks. Manuela spreads her fingers over her ample cleavage, the shock plain enough in her body language to be easily understood from the cheapest seats in the far back of the opera house. 

“Why, Miss Eisner!” she says with delighted outrage, the corners of her lips curling up in mischief. “I am an unwed woman, just what are you insinuating!” 

“You just said you’d taken it.” 

“For my own edification, yes,” Manuela says, fluffing her hair with the air of a satisfied cat grooming itself in a sunny spot. Byleth raises an eyebrow at the display. “I should know the things I might be prescribing, don’t you think?” 

“Mm-hm.” Byleth gives her the same look she gives Claude when he’s full of shit and is daring her to call him on it. 

“Oh don’t look at me like that, you’re the one who brought it up,” Manuela huffs. “So who is this mystery man?” she asks, bracing her elbow on the table and leaning her chin on her propped up hand. Her eyebrows climb towards her hairline. “A name is my price for this little consultation.” 

Byleth quickly gulps a mouthful of tea to hide her face, squeezing her eyes shut at the scalding heat in her mouth. When she finally manages to cool it off enough to swallow, peeking out behind the cup, Manuela is waiting patiently with the expectant expression on her face unchanged. 

“One of my fath— my mercenaries,” she improvises. There’s still more than eighty of them, choosing to stick with her after her father’s passing. Byleth feels their continued trust keenly, determined to do right by them. Surely there must be _someone_ among them that she could convince Manuela she — 

“Mm-hm,” the woman intones with the exact same inflection Byleth just used on her. “Pretty green eyes, disquieting interest in toxicology, has been staying the night in your room ever since the captain..?” 

Byleth keeps her face expressionless, trying to think of a rebuttal. Manuela sighs and leans across the table to pat her hand. 

“Leave it, girl, I was only asking to see what you’d say — I saw you together at the Ball.” She shakes her head wistfully. “I keep forgetting how young you are. Let me give you some personal advice, along with the medical.” 

Byleth bites her lip. For someone Claude keeps calling secretive and mysterious, she doesn’t think she’s very good at keeping secrets. 

“The Officer’s Academy is like a bubble,” Manuela says, cradling her cup in both hands. “For one year, the students come here and whoever they are on the outside, they’re more or less equals here. You know, just yesterday, I told the _Imperial Princess of Adrestia_ to pull the weeds out of the flowerbeds facing the classrooms, and she just went along with it — I didn’t even realize how odd that was until I was eating dinner.” 

She sets the cup down on its saucer with a click. 

“But it doesn’t last, not when they leave again.” Her face softens with sympathy, and Byleth feels like she has swallowed something cold. A sip of tea fails to warm her. “Oh, honey.” Manuela’s hand reaches for hers, squeezing her fingers. “I’m not saying he doesn’t care for you. But that boy is set to be a duke, and well… In some ways, us commoners have far more freedom than our supposed betters do.” 

She retracts her hand. Byleth keeps her eyes on the tiny waves in her cup, avoiding Manuela’s attempt at eye contact. 

“You know what?” Manuela says, brushing a few fallen hairs back from her face. “You have two months until he graduates. Enjoy them.” She sips her tea, and looks nonchalantly out the window. “You’re very unlikely to get pregnant just before your period. During the first few days of it, too, if you don’t mind the mess. And for the rest of the time, well— There are other ways to find pleasure together.” Her gaze probes Byleth’s face again, not relenting until she reluctantly meets her eyes. “Love him while you can have him,” she says, “then content yourself with the memories. Because, and you can take my word for this: boys like him don’t marry girls like us.” She sighs, deeply, an expression Byleth can’t read flitting across her face. “And being the mistress of a man you love will tear your heart from your chest.” 

This time it’s Manuela who looks down, blinking her eyes. It’s not until she delicately wipes them with her fingertips that Byleth realizes she was tearing up. 

“He asked me to go with him,” she ventures awkwardly, not sure if she’s defending Claude or trying to justify her belief in him. “He says we can be together, he just needs to curry some favor.” 

“Sweetie,” Manuela says, looking sadly at Byleth with her eyes still shiny with unshed tears. “Then he’s either lying to you or to himself.” 

* * *

Manuela gives her the report on the dagger when she asks, but Byleth can’t get through the first page without her eyes welling up, tears too thick to see through. She tries to push herself further, but it all comes back to her — the smell of her father’s blood, his voice choking on it as he tried to speak. His eyes when it was over, empty and unseeing before Hilda had mercifully closed them for the last time. 

She cries until her nose is so stuffed with snot that it runs down the back of her throat, and she has to pull herself out of her mire of grief enough to find something to blow her nose with before she chokes. The elegant swirls of Manuela’s penmanship are spattered with her tears, a few letters dissolving into dark, illegible blurs as the paper soaks up her grief. 

She controls her breathing and fights the flood of emotion under control, neatly re-stacking the loose pages and placing them on her desk without letting her eyes focus on the words. She’s in control, she thinks, she just needs something to occupy her mind — she has a book, that will do — 

The book shares a drawer with the little pouch containing her mother’s wedding ring, and seeing it is enough to tumble her from her little island of calm. 

When Claude finds her at dinnertime, curled up on the bed with the shape of the ring imprinted in the skin of her palm, she’s too exhausted to cry any more. Still, he folds himself around her, his hands stroking soothingly down her back as her fingers curl in his coat. His voice flows through her without her really processing what he’s saying, but she thinks some of it is apologies. 

She’s not sure how long she spends lying still and quiet with her head tucked under his chin, but by the time she feels ready to rejoin the people who move and talk, the sun has long since set and the monastery is settling in for the night. Both of their stomachs are rumbling. 

“Hi,” she says feebly. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” He kisses her forehead. “I don’t think the kitchen has closed yet. I’ll go get us something quick to eat here, okay?” 

While he’s gone, Byleth decides not to tell him about Manuela’s advice. _Love him while you can have him_ , she had said. She can do that. She can indulge herself in him now and wait to decide whether to follow him when he goes, and if he’s only using her… Well, she can use him back. That’s fair, isn’t it? 

Their meager meal of bread and cheese is barely finished when she pushes him onto the bed and climbs into his lap, stripping the coat off him purposefully. 

“You sure you want this tonight?” he asks between kisses, his thumb stroking over her cheek, brushing lightly under her tear-swollen eye. 

She isn’t. Her head hurts, and really she just wants to curl up in his arms and sleep. But time is not on her side in this, and her window of opportunity is limited. 

“Please,” she breathes, tugging his shirt over his head. “It’s a safe day.” She thinks it is — her recollection of the past few weeks is a little foggy, but she’s done the math in her head. She should bleed soon, she’s almost certain of it. And if she’s wrong, she has Manuela’s little pouch of seeds to chew to make sure. She may only have a handful of chances at this, and she does not intend to miss out. “I want this, I want to feel you—” Her words fail her, and she presses their mouths together again, curling her fingers into his hair. Claude hesitates. Finally, after far too long a moment, he rolls his hips back up against hers, his fingers sliding under her shirt and peeling it off her body. 

This time, he doesn’t stop her when she slides down onto him, just clutches her tight to his chest. His breath is heaving despite the fact that she’s doing most of the moving. 

Afterward, she sits awake against the headboard, thoughtfully grinding a spoonful of seeds between her teeth while Claude slumbers contentedly with an arm slung loose around her waist. She wonders if it was worth it — if she blew her chance at that supposedly mythical real first time by rushing things tonight. The sex was better yesterday: both his precision and his stamina were better with his hands. 

He makes a soft, half-awake sound once she shuffles down into the bed, having washed the clinging oily taste of the seeds down with a glass of water, and snuggles against her side. His arm curls around her as if she were a life-size teddy bear. 

“Good night,” he murmurs, eyes slitting open. Byleth kisses his forehead, brushing his hair back from his face. It smells good, she thinks. Kind of citrusy, with something like grass and wet soil underneath it as she lingers, breathing him in. 

If she can’t keep him, she thinks, she’ll memorize every detail of how he feels in her arms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What with recent events on twitter… Any kids reading this though they technically shouldn’t: fanfic is not sex ed. You live in a world where reliable contraceptives and resources like scarleteen.com exist, take advantage of that.
> 
> Please deposit comment below to receive undying love from author.


	11. The darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth loses her cool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how we have that tag for Graphic Depictions Of Violence? We are earning it today. 
> 
> Iris? Thank you <3

For the first weeks after her father’s passing, Byleth was teetering between stunned and stricken by despair. As she has slowly been getting her feet back underneath her, vengeance has been evermore on her mind. 

Claude had promised to help her, and she had believed that he would try. 

She had not expected him to succeed before the end of the moon. 

“Teach!” he calls out one late morning, catching her in the entrance hall on her way to check up on the Company. She turns to watch him careen down the stairs at a breakneck pace, skidding to a stop in front of her to immediately bend over to brace his hands on his knees. Byleth begins to smile at him, too out of breath to speak and with spiderwebs clinging to his hair, until he manages to wheeze out one single word. 

The word is Tomas, and Byleth freezes in place. 

“Tomas…” Claude pants, slowly pulling himself upright. “I mean… Solon…” He takes a deep breath, holding it for a moment. Byleth waits, breathless with impatience. “Whew. Okay:” he says in a hushed voice. “Solon and his lackeys have been spotted in the Sealed Forest. It’s not far. Rhea has called the knights back, but it’ll take hours for even the closest patrols to get here.” 

Byleth’s pulse thuds loud in her ears. Rhythmic, powerful, slow, like a great bell tolling her enemy’s death. 

She reminds herself to breathe, going over her mental checklist. 

“We can go before that,” she says once she’s satisfied. 

“Yeah, uh… You see, Rhea didn’t exactly _mean_ for me to overhear this. I think she wants to keep you in the dark until it’s dealt with, lest you do something…” 

As if on cue, there is a commotion at the top of the hall, giving way before Rhea like the sea parting before the prow of a ship. She pauses at the top of the stairs, poise regal, giving Seteth and a few remaining knights time to catch up with her before she proceeds. 

“…ill-considered,” Claude finishes. 

Byleth steps in front of him before Rhea reaches them, her eyes flashing. 

“No,” the arch-bishop states. “I will not allow it.” 

Byleth’s eyes narrow. 

Seteth interjects, trying to win her over with reason instead, but while Byleth rationally knows that he’s right: this does smell like a trap, she is incandescently angry and is in no mood to bend to either Seteth’s arguments or Rhea’s authority. 

Claude gives her one look, and brings the bullshit. 

He’s buying time, she thinks, because neither one of them have a convincing argument yet, but he’s good at it. They’re listening attentively, Byleth realizes with amazement, while Claude is smoothly flattering them and himself and the monastery without ever really saying anything of substance at all. 

Her mind whirls for an argument that isn’t just fury to let them go, but Claude finds one first. Only Byleth’s familiarity with his expressions lets her spot the moment he goes from stalling to arguing his point. 

He wins them over, and then keeps impressing her — it seems that while she has been struggling to breath through the grief and make sense of her feelings for Claude, Claude himself has been busy. 

Not only has he been spying on Rhea’s private audiences, he has apparently managed to whip the Deer into such an effective unit that even Hilda is changed out of her uniform and buckled into her armor in less than half an hour. She gives Byleth a firm nod as she hoists her axe off her shoulder and hands it to Raphael, who is always eager to use its weight to help limber up before a fight. 

One of Hilda’s pigtails has come crooked, and she whines as she tries to straighten it in her heavy gauntlets, hairs catching and pulling between the jointed plates. An uncommonly grim-faced Flayn, determined to strike back at the people responsible for her kidnapping, helps her adjust it. 

They’re nearly ready to set out. Lysithea stands by the gate, nose deep in a book and tapping her foot in impatience at the delay. Ignatz stands ready and awkward next to her, waiting until Marianne comes running from the infirmary, satchel of medical equipment bouncing on her hip. 

Byleth closes her eyes. She never managed to read that report, but Claude has summarized it for her. The dagger was ensorcelled to her father’s blood: on anyone else, careful cuts made with it seem to respond to healing as normal. 

“ _Why?”_ , Claude had asked. Why was her father targeted? Byleth finds that she lacks the energy to care: he’s gone, what does it matter what Monica or Solon had to gain from it? She’ll kill them. 

She’ll kill them and turn whatever triumph they won into dust. 

She shakes her head, wonders who else’s blood they may have. Wonders if Marianne and the crash course Manuela has been giving her on first aid will be enough to stop anyone else from bleeding out into the mud today. Non-magical treatment is what Byleth got by on during most of her mercenary career, but it can’t restore a body like magic can. 

She swallows, hoping her students have the sense to be careful. Flayn in particular: she doesn’t know about the rest of them, but there is no doubt that their enemies have her blood. 

Marianne gasps a breathless ‘Professor’ as she passes, hurrying over to where Lorenz is holding both their horses and accepting Dorte’s reins. They both mount up and join with Leonie, who’s walking her mount in wide figure eights by the gate, a look of hard-fought calm on her face. 

“Ready, Teach?” Claude asks in a low voice. Something has shifted in her absence, she thinks: she has been usurped, Claude now the undisputed leader of their little group. She finds she doesn’t mind. She’s been a teacher for almost a year, but today, she needs to be the Ashen Demon. 

Beside her, Claude surveys the group. “Everyone good?” he calls, slotting his bow in place on his back. He’s carrying it strung, and Byleth has seen him practice with the holster in the training grounds. He can tuck into a roll and be ready to fire when he rolls onto his knees a second later. “Let’s go!” 

It’s a clear, cold day, frost crunching under their feet as they leave the well-trodden paths around the monastery behind and head into the forest. At first, the first birds of spring are singing in the bare treetops, but as they draw deeper into the forest it gets quieter and quieter. Soon, no sound can be heard save the shifting of dead grass around their feet and the wind whispering in dark branches. 

Claude raises a hand. 

“We’re almost there,” he says in a low voice. “Be careful. They wouldn’t be this close to the monastery without reason — honestly, this is probably a trap. But I don’t see another way to find out what’s going on here: if the same guys were behind Flayn’s abduction,” he says, nodding the girl’s way, “and Remire, and Captain Jeralt’s murder…” He looks to Byleth and meets her eyes, then scratches at his forehead for a second, frowning. “I don’t know what they’re after, but I intend to find out. And once we know, we stop them. That,” he says, holding her gaze steadily. “Is our most important objective. Vengeance — though believe me I do see the appeal — is secondary.” His gaze flits from her to rest on Leonie, who stares back defiantly. Claude, instead of challenging her, drops his eyes to the ground. “Avenging Jeralt won’t bring him back, guys. The priority here is to stop them before they hurt anyone else.” 

Leonie finally lowers her head in a quick nod, and Claude tells them to get ready. 

He holds her back when they turn to check over their equipment, his fingers light in the crook of her elbow. 

“I won’t tell you what to do,” he murmurs, close enough that nobody else can overhear them. “But I think it’s likely that you’re a target in this, too. Keep your head.” He swallows. “Please.” 

She nods, fingers briefly covering his and squeezing. 

“You too,” she murmurs. “Stay safe.” 

“I’ll be right behind you,” he promises, wryly. “So try not to get us killed, okay?” 

Byleth glances at his face, his flat-lipped smirk the least convincing she has seen in months, his eyes wide and wary. He’s worried, she thinks, pushing himself forward on will rather than conviction. 

He still thinks of himself as prey, she thinks. She never has been. 

She lets her fingers slip from his, his grip easily letting her go when she starts walking. 

“Let’s go,” she says. The sword rings in the unnatural silence as she pulls it from its sheath. 

Demonic beasts welcome them, but Byleth barely notices them. Instead her eyes lock on the slight red-headed form standing in some sort of ruin, laughing as she changes. 

White skin. 

Like Solon, then. The real Monica has probably been dead ever since she disappeared. 

If only she’d — No. This is not the time for regret. 

Byleth charges, her feet pounding the frozen grass, at first not even recognizing that the roar she can hear is coming out of her own throat. Claude shouts a warning just as a beast tries to take a swipe at her, and she throws herself to the side, rolls, keeps running, leaving her students behind as they swarm the creature. 

They shout after her, Claude, Lysithea, Raphael, and she ignores them all, dispatching an axeman that stood in her way with nary a pause. A white-faced mage raises her hands in front of her, weaving darkness together — she’s too far away to make it before the spell releases, she needs to — an arrow thunks into the woman’s chest, the magic dissipating as she clutches the shaft, stumbling to her knees. Leonie gallops past her, smoothly nocking another arrow, letting it fly toward a horseman further ahead. 

She hears Lorenz yelling behind her and runs faster, into the copse of trees Leonie has to go around. The sword glows in her hands as she viciously hacks her way through the undergrowth, her target crouching in preparation — Byleth whips her sword out and the woman vaults over it, landing on her hands and tumbling like a jester into a somersault, swiping at Byleth’s gut before she has time to curl her sword back. She dodges, but far less elegantly, nearly losing her balance in the process. She blocks the next swipe, catching the woman’s narrow blade between two segments of her sword, pushing back and trying to hook her opponent’s ankle with her foot. The woman falls back with a grunt, but easily avoids the attempt to trip her, leaping out of range. 

Byleth narrows her eyes, waiting. She is outmatched in agility, and if she releases her segmented blade again she will be virtually unprotected while it arcs through the air. 

Can’t rely on its power this time, she thinks, reigning herself in and adopting a defensive stance. Leonie is not far behind, the rest of the class surely close to catching up. They’re her edge now, not her sacred weapon. 

“Aww,” not-Monica coos, “are you _afraid_? Don’t you want to see _daddy_?” 

Byleth’s vision flashes, rage making her blood boil. The woman easily spins out of the way of her attack, the tip of her blade catching across Byleth’s upper arm. She hisses at the pain, parrying a stab for her center and managing to put enough force into it that her opponent gasps, her wrist obviously numb from the impact. 

“Monica!!” Leonie appears behind the copse, face contorted in rage. 

“ _I told you_ ,” the pale woman snarls, jumping away from Leonie’s arrow. It strikes the floor of the open ruin behind them, making a clattering sound as skitters across the flagstones. “My name is _Kronya_!” She’s distracted. Byleth snaps her sword out, striking from the shoulder. “That weakling girl w— _aah_!” 

She leaps, but not fast enough. The cruel ridges on the Sword of the Creator rip into her calf and tears her flesh. 

Her landing isn’t graceful. 

She scampers to her hands and feet, barely avoiding Leonie’s arrow with a desperate roll to the side, Byleth’s backstroke carving shallow gashes into her back as the segments of the sword slash just over her back. 

“No!” she shrieks, pushing herself to her feet. She runs, Byleth hot on her heels, dashing onto the cracked flagstones of the ruin until either the crumbling surface or her shredded calf makes her lose her footing. Her blade flies from her hand, tumbling out of reach. 

“It can’t be,” she sobs, rolling into a defensive stance with a dagger raised. Byleth jumps back, changing her stance. Her opponent is wounded, but certainly not harmless. 

“You’re vermin,” the woman snarls, face twisted in hatred. “I won’t lose to you, I’ll _kill you_ —” 

“Well.” 

“Teach—!” Claude calls, warning in his tone. 

_Solon_. 

Byleth didn’t see him arrive. 

“Well,” Kronya snaps, “what are you waiting for, I —” 

Byleth takes a few steps back, cautious, then freezes in shock as Solon’s hand strikes like a viper, punching in between his supposed ally’s shoulder blades. Kronya chokes, her eyes wide with fear and pain as she is lifted into the air. 

Dark flames erupt around Solon’s feet, spreading quickly along barely perceptible grooves in the worn stone floor. 

Encircling her. 

“By, get back!” Claude yells, but it’s too late, she’s already surrounded— 

She runs, back toward her class, leaving Solon monologuing in triumph on the other side of the dark inferno. The last thing she sees before the flames close around her is Leonie’s face blanching in fear, her hand outstretched but her horse rearing away in terror where the rider would have pushed on into the darkness. 

The last thing she hears is Claude shouting her name. 

* * *

She falls through nothingness for a moment as long as a lifetime. She can feel herself unraveling, her sense of self eroding like a dry piece of clay dropped in a stream, until — 

Suddenly? 

Not really; time has no meaning here. 

Sothis draws her into that little quiet space around her throne, and just like that, Byleth has always been there. 

Being yelled at. 

“Do you _EVER THINK_?” Sothis scolds her. “Have you no _sense_? You knew it was a trap: the boy even told you so!” 

Byleth hesitates. He did. She remembers how he sounded when the spell took her. Terrified, anguished. 

She looks down, meekly accepting the rebuke. 

  
“What should I do?” she asks when Sothis has ranted herself into breathlessness, and the goddess’s face falls. 

“ _You_ can’t do anything,” she says, her face filling with grief. “And as long as I exist within you… I, too, am trapped.” 

Byleth’s stomach chills. No. Her father always said that the fight wasn’t over until you were dead. 

…which… Oh. She probably is. 

And she dragged Sothis along with her. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, eyes downcast and hugging her arms to her body. “I’ve killed us, haven’t I?” 

Sothis sighs. 

“Not quite. This… darkness is a separate plane of existence from your world.” She shakes her head, headdress jingling. “I can travel between the planes, but…” Her head lifts, regarding Byleth. “That would mean leaving you here. In time, I expect you would cease to be…” She sighs, and Byleth nods, resigned. 

She should have died that morning in Remire, saving Edelgard. Sothis gave her nearly a year after that: she had friends because of her. She fell in love. 

“What’s with that face?” Sothis exclaims. “Are you just going to _accept_ that, honestly, what is _wrong_ with you..?” She scowls, tapping her fingers on her knee as if Byleth is sorely testing her patience. “Don’t you _want_ to live?” 

Byleth inclines her head, and Sothis’s left eye twitches. 

“Well?” she snaps. “Speak up.” 

“I do,” Byleth says, slowly raising her eyes and then her chin to regard Sothis on her throne. “I want to live.” 

“Good.” The goddess nods solemnly. “Then I will entrust my fate to you. We will be one and you will have my power, but…” She closes her eyes. “I, as I am now, will disappear.” 

Byleth opens her mouth to protest, and Sothis silences her with a wave of her hand. 

“Not entirely. I will not be able to speak with you as I am now, but my soul will be a part of yours. I expect my consciousness will be… scattered, as it seems to have been before, but — perhaps some of it will remain, as much as your fragile mind can contain.” She sighs. “Though I fear what that might do to you.” 

“Will you… Come back?” Byleth asks. “As your own person?” 

“I know not. Perhaps in time.” Sothis smiles, sadly. “I do know that what remains of me will miss our conversations. I think it has been a very long time indeed since I have had a friend.” She stands up. “Come, child,” she says, a slight smile playing around her mouth as she reaches out a hand. “Meet me halfway?” 

Byleth takes a first step up the stairs, her throat tight with apprehension, then a second. Sothis descends toward her. Light glimmers when their fingers brush, and then Sothis passes _through_ her, flowing into her like an unexpected rush of cold air, of lightning. It feels like being knocked over by the waves, and tumbling, tumbling… 

Memories pass through her, flashing one after the other, some clear, others like half-remembered dreams. 

The impressions are jumbled and incomplete, Byleth only getting scattered fragments that she somehow senses are out of order, but the sheer scale of them is enough to wash her sense of self away. What Byleth there was, her twenty-odd years of half-forgotten experiences, the last year spent being alive in a way she never has before, her love, her grief, her hopes… 

All insignificant. 

She is nothing. She is one tear rolling down the cheek of the cosmos, and Sothis is the ocean. 

And then it is over. Sothis is gone, and Byleth is herself again, standing alone in a crumbling bubble adrift in a void without time. 

Somehow, she knows where to cut it. Light floods the darkness. 

* * *

Her knees crumble as she hits the ground to the sounds of battle, bracing herself on her sword to keep her feet. The scene swims before her eyes, but she makes out Ignatz’s yelp as he narrowly dodges a blast of dark magic. 

“Professor..?” Hilda calls uncertainly, making Claude turn his focus from the demonic beast he’s engaging, sword glittering as it dances through the air. The moment of distraction nearly costs him his head. Byleth’s throat closes on the shout as the beast rears up, enormous claws swiping at him. 

Hilda steps in front of the blow, swinging the haft of her axe up in front of her to block. The axe holds, as does Hilda’s form, but she is pushed back under the force of the impact. She skids into Claude, knocking him off his feet, then stumbles herself. She lands on her back with a gasp, air knocked out of her, the weight of her armor hindering her movement as the beast raises one thick foreleg to crush her into the dirt. 

She is saved by the simultaneous impact of Lysithea’s spell rupturing the beast’s side and Claude’s arrow sinking deep into its eye. 

“Teach!” Claude calls, scrambling upright and rushing to Hilda’s side, helping her free herself from where the beast has partially fallen on her. “That…” He frowns, grunting as Hilda almost topples him pulling herself up. “It is you… Right?” 

Further ahead, Lorenz charges at Solon. Byleth sees darkness gather around him, hears his grunt of pain as he clutches at his chest. She is running before he hits the ground, his horse shying away. Leonie wheels her mount around Solon to draw his attention while Raphael helps a furious-looking Flayn drag their fallen housemate behind a tree. 

“Professor!” Marianne calls. Clods of dirt scatter from Dorte’s hoofs as she rides hard towards Byleth. “Are you alright?” 

_No_ , Byleth thinks, _not at all_. Still, her shaking legs obey her. Leonie is in danger, penned in against a cliff wall astride a terrified horse that looks a moment away from losing its balance on the paved platform. 

“Lift!” she calls, extending her arm, and Marianne evidently understands her intention well enough to grasp her arm and pull. Byleth struggles up behind the saddle as Marianne turns the horse around. Up ahead, Leonie vaults off her horse and smacks it across the rump to encourage its descent into panic, the pandemonium off two riderless war horses contained in the small space between the cliff and the stairways enough to distract Solon from Raphael’s approach. Knifed gauntlets slam deep into his back before the mage has time to respond, a wave of dark energy flaring from his feet and knocking Raphael tumbling, crashing into the stem of a mighty oak hard enough to make the branches shiver. Byleth throws herself off the horse and tucks into a roll rather than wait for the animal to navigate the stairs, pushing to her feet with a defiant yell. 

Solon glances at her over his shoulder, lips curled in malice even when he coughs up a mouthful of black blood. Then his eyes turn to Raphael, conscious but dazed, moving far too slow to escape the magic gathering around Solon’s hands. 

She’s too far away, _no_ — 

“ _I don’t think so_ ,” Flayn snarls, wind erupting from her palms to wrap around Solon, tossing him into the air with his robes whipping in the gale. “Fare _well_.” She snaps her hands apart, sending Solon careening into a tree, heavy branches snapping under the impact. When the storm dies down, Flayn standing panting in the middle of the clearing, Solon stays hanging, hands scrabbling at the thick branch protruding from his torso. 

“No, no…” he mutters, blood dripping from his lips. Byleth staggers to a stop, her knees giving out underneath her. “It cannot be…” Raphael is slowly sitting up, in obvious pain but alive. 

“Oh yes,” Leonie growls, and puts an arrow through the mage’s throat. “It can.” 

* * *

“Teach,” Claude gasps, pushing his way past Ignatz. He drops to his knees in front of her and lifts her face up to meet his gaze, staring into her eyes with worry written so plain across his face she can read it even though her vision is blurring. She blinks back at him, dizzy. “You scared us,” he says. “What’s wrong?” 

“Claude,” she manages, clutching at his wrist. Then her stomach overturns, and she spews her breakfast onto the grass between them, sick splattering warm against her knees. Several pairs of hands reach for her, helping steady her as she heaves, holding her hair back, stroking cool over her forehead with a tingle of healing magic. 

“She’s burning up,” she hears Marianne say as if from a distance, or as if she’s underwater. “I’m sorry, I don’t know of a spell that does this!” 

“Lysithea?” Claude asks, with the measured calm he adopts under stress. It reassures Byleth more than any number of caring hands. 

“How am I supposed to know? The only resource the Academy had on dark magic was the guy who did this!” 

“Just… do your best, will you?” 

Byleth convulses as Lysithea’s magic snakes into her, tendrils of darkness trailing down her nerves and leaving her feeling violated. Claude soothes her as if she were a skittish horse, wiping the sick from her nose and mouth. 

“Whatever it is, it’s not magic,” Lysithea concludes at last, her power dissipating to nothingness inside Byleth’s body. “It could be a poison — Marianne, have you learnt to sense that yet?” 

Fresh magic starts to pulse into her and Byleth reaches out a shaking hand, pushing Marianne away. She sweeps her arm around, dislodging the hands on her, shuffling to the side and lurching onto her feet, her hands braced on her knees as her head spins. Claude steadies her before she falls. 

“Talk,” she manages, clutching at his arm. Her leg buckles, and she drops until Claude catches her weight. “Alone.” 

“Give us some space!” he orders, shrugging her arm over his shoulder before half leading, half carrying her a few steps behind the cover of a spruce. “What’s going on?” he asks. “Where were you? What’s…” His finger catches a strand of her hair, and Byleth finally processes that it is much lighter than she’s used to. 

“I was…” She tries, head spinning. “The Goddess… she’s been living inside me.” Claude blinks, eyes widening, but doesn’t interrupt. “That’s why -- Rhea.” She stumbles, and Claude helps lower her to the ground as her legs give out, sitting her down to lean against his chest. The unconcerned mask he likes to adopt when under pressure is crumpling, fear showing in the cracks. Her numb fingers squeezes his hand, trying to comfort. “She’s… part of me now. She gave me… her power.” Her head sinks to his shoulder as exhaustion washes through her. 

“Byleth?” His fingers tilt her chin to look at him, her head drooping forward when he lets go. He catches her, patting at her cheek. “By, stay with me!” 

His face swims before her eyes, her eyelids flickering shut no matter how hard she tries to keep them open. 

“Shh,” she whispers, trying to soothe him. Her hands are too heavy to raise. With the last of her quickly waning strength, she manages to turn her head a little and brushes a weak kiss against the base of his thumb. 

Then darkness takes her, and Claude’s pleas fade into silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying out this thing with shorter chapters and posting more frequently, because the last few chapters have been heavy, not just in content but in making the words come together coherently. It feels good to make some progress in the external story too, after all that focus on emotions!
> 
> Let me know what you think :)


	12. The foreboding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude is suspicious, and Byleth is confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Claude, but god do I love writing him being an utter asshole.

Byleth goes limp, and Claude allows himself one choice obscenity in his first language. 

“Marianne!” he shouts, pulling Byleth’s weight over his shoulder and pushing to his feet. “She’s out cold, what do we do?” Marianne hurries to his side, placing her hand on Byleth’s bare and bloodied arm. Whatever wound caused the bleeding is already sealed. Could the blade have been poisoned — yes, why not, though Byleth herself seemed to believe her condition related to this… 

Goddess business. 

…seriously? 

He’d assume it fevered hallucinations, if not for, well — Her lost crest. Her sacred sword, responding differently to every other crest weapon he’s ever heard of. Rhea’s experimentation and subsequent obsession. 

The way a powerful, evil, apparently _shape-shifting_ dark mage had, what, disappeared her? Sent her — somewhere? And seemed surprised when she came back, with her pale green new hair and eyes that Claude can’t help noticing look remarkably like Rhea’s. Rhea, who has been archbishop at _least_ since his mother was young, whose exact length of tenure seems curiously undocumented. 

The ten elites allegedly lived for several hundred years, their prolonged lifespan passed down in diluted form through their crests. Is Rhea — whatever, he interrupts himself. _Later_. Byleth first. 

… _Solon had called her Fell Star._

“I…” Marianne hesitates, and Claude suppresses every sign of impatience — they will only make her slower to make her point. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do. We’d best take her back to the infirmary.” 

“I’ll take her,” Leonie volunteers. “Rusty can carry us both, no problem.” 

Claude’s jaw tenses. She’s right, yes: they should send Byleth on horseback, she’s ill and may be getting worse as they speak, but he’s loath to let her out of his sight. 

Besides, he’s the only one who knows what ails her. She made a point of that, even in her delirium. 

And their third rider is sitting leaned back against a tree getting his chest and shoulder tended to by Flayn, evidently feeling shitty enough not to make a fuzz about the disgrace of his tattered shirt. 

“Lorenz,” he says, and the man looks at him. Flayn looks sympathetic but not worried. He’ll recover, Claude concludes. “You mind walking?” he asks, nodding at Lorenz’s horse who has calmed down enough to be sniffing around at the ground for anything worth eating. 

“That horse is the finest—” 

“Finest destrier bred in Leicester in a generation, I know,” Claude repeats, having heard the phrase enough times to memorize not just the words but the inflection. “I know, I’ll be properly reverent.” 

Lorenz nods slightly, wincing as Flayn carefully shifts his arm. 

“For the professor,” he grits out through clenched teeth. His skin is dark with bruising, streaks of it extending out from the purple-red starburst-shape over his heart and winding down his left arm. Claude wonders if he’s imagining things, or if the dark streaks seem to move slowly under his skin. 

Flayn and Lysithea can handle it, he decides. 

“Leonie, you’re our escort. Marianne, with me, keep a hand on her vitals.” 

The horse truly is magnificent: Claude prefers the agile, smooth-gaited horses of his homeland to the heavier Fódlan stock, but he can recognize perfection when he’s sitting on it. Besides, the size will be an advantage — his and Byleth’s weight combined won’t be enough to even faze it. 

Getting her up is a bit difficult — Hilda holds Byleth while he adjusts the stirrups, Raphael having been glared down by Flayn when he attempted to get up from his resting spot to help, but Hilda is short, the horse is tall and Byleth is surprisingly heavy when entirely limp. Eventually Leonie has to help from horseback, but soon Byleth is propped up in the saddle in front of him, her head resting on his shoulder and her back securely held to his chest, and they’re off. 

Trotting immediately proves a bad idea — Byleth is going to bite her tongue off the way she’s jostled, but the horse has a fairly smooth canter to quickly cross off the miles back to the monastery. When they walk the horses down hills or over treacherous terrain, Marianne rides close at his side, her fingers fastened to Byleth’s wrist to monitor her condition. 

At one point he thinks she stirs in his arms, her eyelids flickering when he searches her face, but she doesn’t respond to him and soon her eyelashes are resting still on the planes of her cheeks again, barely darker than her skin. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispers against her cheek, squeezing her closer. “I won’t let you go.” 

They arrive back at the monastery to exclamations of dismay, the late captain’s daughter arriving lifeless so soon after her father’s passing, but Claude tosses the reins to a conveniently situated Ferdinand and dismounts with a shout of “She’s alive!” 

Byleth slides off the horse and into his arms, and off he goes, lugging her awkwardly along with her arm pulled across his shoulders and her side pressed against his. Leonie joins him on the stairs and slips under Byleth’s other arm, and together they haul her towards the infirmary, her head lolling and her feet dragging over the floor until Marianne catches up with Dimitri at her side. The prince effortlessly steps in and scoops Byleth into his arms, long legs easily out-pacing him and Leonie unless they jog to keep up. 

Claude would protest, but fatigue is catching up to him. He hasn’t taken any major hits, but he is dappled with scrapes and bruises, and his knee is aching after a rough stumble on uneven ground. Leonie has blood smeared over her cheek, and he doesn’t even know if its her own. 

“What’s happened to her?” Dimitri asks. 

“Dark magic,” Claude says, at the same time as Leonie spits “That _freak_ librarian!” 

“We don’t quite know,” Marianne explains, sounding uncommonly… at ease. Huh. “She has a high fever.” 

Manuela gasps when they barrel into the room, but quickly assumes control of the situation. Byleth is placed on a cot, Leonie sent to the fireplace to fetch boiling water, and Claude is handed a mortar and pestle and and a small pouch of leaves. 

“Grind these. As fine as you can,” Manuela says, and decisively pulls a curtain between him and the woman she _knows_ he’s involved with. 

Claude shuts up and grinds, listening to Marianne and Manuela working. It’s not long until Seteth peers in through the door, and within minutes Rhea is gliding into the room. He can’t see Byleth past the curtain, but he can see the weird excitement on Rhea’s face as she crosses the room, the way her eyes light up with hunger when she sees the changes wrought on Byleth. 

He suppresses a shiver of unease. 

Oh yeah. Whatever Rhea did to Byleth as a baby, her plans are coming to fruition now. 

* * *

He tries to linger in the infirmary, going as far as to vastly exaggerate the damage to his knee and hope that Marianne won’t call him on it when she examines him, but it’s no use. Byleth is still unconscious, and Manuela is running out of patience with him. Thinking it won’t help his chances to actually get thrown out, he finally surrenders to Leonie’s unsubtle looks and lets her lead them out into the corridor. Marianne hurries after them. 

“Claude,” she says, face kind. “You don’t have to worry. Her life is not in danger.” 

He nods, smoothing out his frown with an effort of will. Manuela had told them as much already. She’ll wake up once the fever passes. 

He figures it’s only himself and Rhea who have cause to wonder _who_ it will be that wakes up. 

“Hey,” Leonie says as he follows her through the deserted reception hall. It’s a beautiful afternoon with the first teasing brush of spring, and the indoor spaces of the monastery are empty. “So are you and the professor..?” 

Claude considers admitting it — Hilda knows, as does Lorenz and Manuela, because Byleth is incredibly bad at not folding under direct questioning. And shit, he _likes_ Leonie. She’s straightforward without being naive: Byleth’s guilelessness is part of what drew him to her, the way she’s never tried to win anything from him but himself, but it also limits what he can tell her. He doesn’t think she’d ever betray him _on purpose,_ but… He trusts her with his life on the battlefield. He doesn’t, _mustn’t_ trust her with his secrets. 

“What about it?” he sighs, taking the middle path of keeping his admission vague enough to backpedal if he needs to. _Gods_ , he’s tired of people sticking their noses into his business. He knows roughly what Lorenz said to Byleth about him, and judging by Manuela’s attitude to him, she’s on the same page. 

They think they know what she is to him. They have _no_ idea. 

“Hmm,” Leonie says, looking around. They’re alone. A slight smile plays across her lips. “If you hurt her, I’ll break your hands,” she says conversationally, and Claude snorts a surprised noise of amusement. 

“Okay,” he says around the reluctant smile. “Fair.” 

“Heh.” She elbows him, grinning. “Congrats. She’s out of your league.” 

_Yeah_ , he thinks wryly. _She’s positively divine_. 

“I know,” he says. 

The afternoon passes in a haze. He saunters past the infirmary twice, ostensibly on his way to the library, before Manuela shuts the door in his face. 

He retreats to the dining hall for a bite and a moment to scheme, and so misses the return of the rest of the Deer and his chance at escorting Lorenz and Raphael to the infirmary. Instead he has to rely on Hilda for intel: Byleth is still sleeping, Manuela unsure what exactly is wrong with her but satisfied with her vitals. 

And Rhea stopped by to check on her. 

…all right. Time to get creative, he thinks, and hope nobody in the kitchen gets in trouble for it. 

He stops by his room to stock up from his poison kit, because Manuela might see through the initial ruse and in that case he may need to step the game up a level. 

_Gods, he hopes not._

Then it’s just… Deep breath, because this is gonna suck — pull the emergency pill he keeps in his collar in case he thinks someone got to him, crush it between his teeth, and swallow. He hopes Cyril forgives him for what he’s about to do to the dorm corridor carpet. 

It’s Lorenz who finds him first, and Dimitri who gets to prove his gallantry by carrying a second person to the infirmary for the day. He’s remarkably gracious about the whole thing. 

Rhea is there when they arrive, sitting at Byleth’s bedside and stroking the still unconscious woman’s hair. Claude regrets nothing as he disentangles himself from Dimitri and drops to his knees, vomit splattering the floor with the force of his retching. _Success_ , he thinks miserably as Manuela exclaims and Rhea excuses herself, stepping delicately around his heaving form. 

* * *

“Did you think I wouldn’t recognize an emetic?” Manuela asks once he’s passed through the worst stages of the purge and it’s only the two of them and the sleeping Byleth in the dimly lit infirmary. Her lips are pressed together thin with annoyance. “What is this,” she asks, sniffing his bowl of vomit like only a medical professional would, “antimony?” 

“Among others,” he admits, voice hoarse. “Personal blend.” 

“Hmph.” She crosses her arms. “I should give you a cup of broth and send you to bed, you’ll be fine in the morning.” 

He looks at Byleth, sleeping peacefully, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Someone has dressed her in a white gown with daisies embroidered on the demure collar, looking like the exact opposite of what she likes to wear when she’s allowed to make choices for herself. 

He blinks in the dim light, looks again to make sure. Her hair, always an unholy mess as likely to have a tangle sheared off with a dagger as tugged out by disinterested fingers, constantly attracting Hilda’s ire with the total lack of care its owner treats it with, has not only been brushed and spread out over the pillow. Somebody has fucking sat themselves down to give her a haircut while she was out cold, possibly fighting for her continued occupation of her own body. 

“But you wont,” he rasps. 

Claude feels a clenching in his belly that has nothing to do with his recent adventures in self-medicating. Cold anger flares, filling all the recently vacated space in his stomach. _Preparing her body for its next occupant, are you?_

“Oh?” Manuela says, danger laced through her voice. “And what makes you say that?” 

_Like hell you are_ , he decides, keeping his expression one of smug self-assurance with an effort of will. _Over my dead body_. 

Claude smirks joylessly. The dead body of the last heir to House Riegan would cause the Church one hell of a lot of inconvenience. 

“You know how to treat aconite poisoning?” he asks, and Manuela blinks, taken aback. 

“Yes, it grows in the area and with so many potential targets under my responsibility—” 

“Cool,” Claude says, plucking a waxed pellet of the ground roots of it from his cuff and plopping it in his mouth. Manuela’s eyes widen comically. 

“ _Don’t!_ ” she exclaims, already at a cabinet. “Goddess, are you _out of your mind_ , even with treatment—” 

Claude grins, displaying the little waxy lump between his front teeth and wagging his eyebrows. Manuela deflates, leaning against the counter for a moment as the adrenaline drains. 

“You’d really…” she says, eyebrows pulling down angrily as he rolls the pellet back and forth between his front teeth. “ _Spit that out_.” 

“Iiy hav sum condishuns,” Claude attempts around the lump. Manuela looks torn between worry and fury. 

“That could kill you,” she hisses. “ _If_ it’s really aconite in that. Why?” she asks, glancing at Byleth in confusion. “To stay with her? I’ve told you: She’s _sleeping_.” 

Claude shrugs a shoulder, rolling the pellet around in his mouth. Still solid. He reckons he’s good for another few minutes, and tucks it in a cheek where it’s less in the way. 

“Look at it like this,” he says, leaning back on his hands with a smirk. “ _I’m_ betting you wouldn’t let me die if you could help it. Are you willing to bet I wouldn’t actually poison myself to get my way?” 

She mutters something uncomplimentary about spoiled brats under her breath. 

“This is blackmail,” she says, crossing her arms under a cleavage that was barely contained as it was. Claude thinks he can hear the fabric of her dress creak under the strain. “You’re… Holding a student hostage, even if it is yourself. I could get you expelled for this.” 

“I’d take you down with me,” he retorts easily. “You _did_ know a fellow faculty member was planning to have sexual relations with a student, and you not only did nothing to stop it, you gave her a bag of seeds to help with her plan.” 

Manuela’s jaw twitches. Oh, this is adorable, she has no game face at all. 

“That wasn’t…” she tries. “That rule is meant to…” 

Claude laughs. 

“Aww, is it only the girls who deserve protection? That’s not how it’s written, though.” He smiles meanly. “Do you want to wake up Seteth and ask his opinion? Better hurry though, I think I’m beginning to taste something through the wax.” 

Manuela swallows. 

“You’d get her in trouble, too,” she says, wetting her lips nervously as she nods towards Byleth. 

“Oh, wherever would she go if she lost this job?” Claude laments, shaking his head at the tragedy. “I guess she _does_ have a friend with a palace in Derdriu, I hear it’s nice there this time of year… As long as he didn’t succumb to a fast-acting and very lethal poison, I suppose.” 

Manuela looks to the floor. 

“…or,” he supplies. “Let’s say you gave me the benefit of the doubt when I showed up here puking my guts out. Gave me some of that broth you were talking about and kept me here under observation for the night.” 

The pill starts tasting more bitter than waxy, and Claude swears internally. She’s defeated, but she hasn’t surrendered _yet_ , and if he spits the poison out now his bluff is called. _Fucking contact poisons_ , he thinks, quickly trying to calculate how ill he could get from the stuff seeping out and dissolving in his saliva, absorbing through the inside of his mouth. The taste is still faint. He knows it will be absolutely foul once the wax is gone completely, and even then he’s unlikely to get _dangerously_ ill as long as gets rid of it immediately. 

He _will_ be miserable, though. 

“You’re a cruel man,” Manuela says, arms folding protectively around herself. _Oh thank the stars, she’s yielding._ “She deserves kinder than you.” 

Claude spits. 

* * *

Byleth isn’t totally submerged in the darkness she’s suspended in. She catches glimpses of the world sometimes, hears short fragments of conversation. 

She succumbs to exhaustion after the battle, but she can still feel Claude hauling her up in his arms and hear him shouting for Marianne. Some time later she recognizes a horse cantering under her, white magic occasionally pulsing through her from a hand on her wrist. She stays awake long enough to register Claude’s voice in her ear, urging the horse on, before nothingness takes her again. Next is Manuela bustling around her, a bitter taste lingering in her mouth — Rhea, stroking her hair and singing — Claude, his smile unkind, his words barbed. Leonie and Lorenz arguing, Lysithea ranting, somebody holding her hand and letting it go when Raphael calls out a greeting, the smell of meat skewers wafting through the room. 

When she wakes up for real, it’s to a slightly unexpected scene. Hilda sits posed in the windowsill, the lace curtain delicately draped along her cheek and an uncharacteristically pious look on her face, while Ignatz is sketching like mad in a chair next to her bed. Byleth squints in the evening light, pain pounding behind her eyes. 

“Oh!” Hilda suddenly exclaims, noticing her slitted open eyes. “Ignatz, fetch Claude, would you?” 

Ignatz runs off, and Hilda helps her sit up against the headboard, holding a glass of water to her lips. Byleth swallows with effort. Judging by how wretched she feels, she’s been out for a while. 

“How long?” she croaks, then coughs. Her hair falls pale into her eyes. Heavens, she remembers. 

_Sothis._

She reaches towards the girl in her mind, towards the faint presence she can still feel in the back of her consciousness. The throne stands empty, her call echoing in the stillness. 

She was careless. She lost her head, and Sothis paid the price for it. 

“It’s been three days,” Hilda says, settling in the chair Ignatz vacated. She’s speaking low and close to Byleth’s ear, eyes on the infirmary door. Something has her on edge. “Professor Manuela wasn’t sure what was wrong with you — Claude wouldn’t let anyone tell her what happened, he’s been…” She bites her lips, eyebrows pulling down in an unnerved frown. “Honestly? He’s gone kinda nuts. At first he got sick, but…” 

“He’s okay?” she manages. Her mouth feels stiff, her tongue too big for it. 

“Yes, yes, he was only in here for a night. Since that, though…” She looks back at the door, as if afraid someone might be listening in. “He’s had us sitting here guarding you twenty-four seven, pretty much _blackmailing_ us into never leaving your side. It’s been _such_ a bother, but… I can tell he’s really scared of something, and Lady Rhea _has_ been acting a little odd.” She looks uncomfortable, twisting her hands unconsciously. “You’ll talk to him, won’t you, Professor? I don’t like this _tension_ at all.” 

Hurried footsteps in the hall, and then Claude is bursting through the door, Ignatz at his heels. 

“Teach,” Claude breathes, swooping down on her. His eyes are shot through with fine blood vessels as they stare into hers, and his coat is buttoned crooked. “You’re— shit, Seteth saw us.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking one deliberate breath to gather himself. “Right. I need you to tell Manuela that you’re feeling better, and you really just want to go back to your own room and rest for the night before talking to anyone, okay?” 

“What?” Byleth mumbles, rubbing a hand over her forehead. She doesn’t want to move. She wants whatever drugs Manuela can give her to ease the headache, and then to drop back down to her pillow and pass out again. She sees Hilda and Ignatz exchange a dubious look, and then Manuela is hurrying into the room. 

“Professor!” she exclaims, taking a step toward her before apparently changing her mind and turning to rummage in a cabinet instead. 

“ _Quickly_ ,” Claude hisses in her ear, Manuela keeping her eyes on the over-stocked shelves and looking uncomfortable. 

Byleth blinks. 

Something is wrong. 

Manuela lets her leave with only the briefest of check-ups, handing her a small pouch with instructions to mix one spoonful of the contents into hot water four times a day. 

Something is _definitively_ wrong. 

* * *

They don’t go to her room. Instead she’s lead stumbling and supported between Claude and Ignatz up the stairs to the second floor dormitory, Edelgard’s “What in the world..?” trailing after her as Hilda invents some excuse. Privately Byleth rather agrees. 

Her feet drag over the steps of the next set of stairs, Claude practically carrying her at this point as Hilda catches up. Byleth glances back and sees the Imperial Princess blinking at their progress. 

“Just keep walking,” Claude says through gritted teeth, flashing a grin so fake that Byleth can’t imagine Edelgard would believe it for a second. 

  
Lorenz’ door opens as they pass, frustration stealing across his face as he sees them. 

“For heaven’s sake, Claude, is this really necessary?” he mutters, before his eyes scan her face. “May I offer you a cup of tea, Professor? Forgive me for saying so, but you look like you need it.” 

“Please,” she says, and finds herself shuffled from Claude’s shoulder as Hilda takes his place. Claude’s fingers dart over the lock to his door, and while the movement is fast and practiced there are obviously several more steps to the sequence than just turning his assigned key in the lock. 

“Nothing dangerous,” he assures them, seeing her look. “Just a little extra security is all…” The door swings open and they shuffle inside, Claude hesitating for a moment before gathering his comforter up in one huge bundle and lifting it and the dozen scattered books on it off the bed. Hilda helps her hobble over to it, and Byleth sinks down on the mattress with a sigh of relief. 

The pillow smells like Claude, she thinks, tucking her chilled feet up into the skirts of the white dress she seems to be wearing. Like the wax he rubs into his hair. The familiarity of it is the first thing that’s made sense since she woke up. 

“Explain,” she mutters out of the corner of her mouth not currently smothered against a pillowcase, watching Claude inspect the window ledge critically while Hilda sits sideways in his desk chair, rolling her eyes. She silently brings up her hand and points at her temple, circling the finger around her ear to indicate madness. Ignatz, standing awkwardly by the door, suppresses a smile. 

“Right,” Claude says, spinning on his heel and clapping his hands together in front of his chest. “Thank you for your help, I think it’s best if Teach and I talk in private now—” 

A knock sounds at the door, and Claude stiffens, his jaw going tight. Byleth pushes herself up in a half-sitting position with effort, because he looks _scared_. 

“Claude!” Edelgard calls through the door, and the tension melts out of Claude’s shoulders to be replaced with annoyance. “Open the door!” 

“Just a moment, your Imperialness!” 

“ _Now_ , Claude.” 

She can hear someone fiddling with the door, and Claude hastily waves Ignatz away from it. 

“Wait,” Claude calls, “I’m not decent —” Something crackles outside, and she hears Hubert swear, a trickle of smoke seeping through the crack around the door. Claude sighs and strides over to it. “Yes?” he says sweetly, opening the smoking door onto a glowering Edelgard and a Hubert who’s cradling his singed glove to his chest. 

“You seem to be dressed,” the princess says icily, eyes casting past him to inspect Byleth on the bed. Hilda folds her arms on the back of the chair and rests her cheek on them. 

“Ah, but you know — respectable? Honorable?” Claude asks. “’Fraid not. What can I do for you?” 

Edelgard huffs, glancing over at Hubert. 

“I _did_ just see you drag a barely conscious woman into your bedroom,” she remarks dryly, stepping into the room and looking around suspiciously. 

“And you what,” Hilda says from the side, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, “wanted a piece?” Edelgard splutters, face coloring. 

“Enough,” Byleth says, laboriously propping herself up against the headboard before relaxing back. Lorenz appears in the doorway with a tray, wrinkling his nose at the state of the door, and Byleth holds her hand out for a cup. Lorenz, ever graceful, doesn’t falter at the breach in etiquette, just puts the tray down on the desk and smoothly pours her a cup. The steam wafts over her face, smelling of lavender. 

“Claude,” he says, “I seem to have miscalculated our numbers. Do you have any cups we could use?” Claude twitches his head toward a cabinet, eyes still locked with Edelgard. Lorenz opens the cabinet and immediately has to stop the escaping torrent of haphazardly stacked alchemy equipment. “You don’t seriously keep this and things you drink out of together— Nevermind, I’m sure—” 

“We _don’t_ need Ferdinand in here too,” Edelgard cuts him off. Across the room, Hilda pours the remaining four cups with studied nonchalance, leaving two on the desk for herself and Lorenz. She rises to her feet and swans through the room, handing one cup to an equally disinterested-looking Claude and bypassing Edelgard to extend the last one to Ignatz, who looks like he’d rather sink through the floor or face a dragon in unarmed combat than get involved in this etiquette pissing contest. 

The corner of Hubert’s lips curl in a smirk. Lorenz’s stands yet a little bit straighter. Byleth’s eyes ticks from heir to an empire to heir to an alliance and back again, measuring the tension. This is well on its way to being a diplomatic incident, she thinks. They could have a war on their hands, all because Claude has the housekeeping skills of a five-year-old and Hilda got territorial. 

Edelgard’s eyes are narrow and unamused. Claude has that self-satisfied smirk on his face that could compel a saint to punch his teeth in. 

Byleth decides to intervene. 

“I’m already sleeping with him,” she states, and Edelgard’s eyes widen momentarily. Claude twitches, his eyes darting her way before he composes himself. “So you don’t have to worry about that,” she explains to Edelgard, ignoring Lorenz aghast expression across the room. She thinks Hilda might be choking next to him. 

There is a moment of silence, nothing audible save Ignatz’s tea dripping onto the floor from where his trembling hands have spilled it, before Hubert begins to chuckle. 

“Well,” says Edelgard brightly, nodding with forced cheer. “That’s. Good to know.” 

Hilda wheezes in a gasp of air, and Byleth throws her a concerned look. 

“But thank you for your concern,” Byleth continues, nodding at the princess. “Was there something else you wanted?” 

Edelgard pulls her shoulders back, nodding slightly. Her eyes go to Ignatz in the corner, who in turn stares pleadingly between herself and Claude. Claude inclines his head a smidgen, and Ignatz all but runs off in terror. Edelgard’s pale eyes turn next to Hilda and Lorenz by the desk, one eyebrow arching slightly. 

“You’re in my room,” Claude remarks easily, leaning back against the row of cabinets lining the wall and crossing his ankles. 

“Oh,” Edelgard counters, in a tone not quite as casual but just as amicably menacing. “So you want discuss the situation in front of an audience? Of course, now about your mother—” 

Claude raises a finger, halting her with a sigh. 

“Lorenz, Hilda,” he says, nodding at the door. Lorenz uncertain gaze flicker between Hubert and herself, but Hilda just walks past him, planting one small hand in the middle of Hubert’s chest and walking him backwards out the door. It closes with a soft click, some decidedly non-standard addition to the lock fizzing softly as it touches the door frame. 

“Alone at last,” Claude says, swirling his tea in the cup like she’s seen people do with fine wines. “What’s this about?” 

Edelgard’s eyebrows rise delicately. 

“I cannot imagine you’re not intrigued by the Professor’s new hair color,” she says, and Claude snaps his fingers. 

“Oh, so this is about _fashion_ , do you want me to call Hilda back—” 

“Very funny,” Edelgard cuts off, in a tone clinically devoid of amusement. “In fact I have little need for your presence either. Professor,” she says, tone turning warmer. 

It’s interesting, really: with Claude, she can pick up on the nuances of his expressions, sense his hostility even as his voice and face grows ever more cordial. Has been able to since very early in their acquaintance, no matter how many layers of deception he wraps himself in. 

With Edelgard, she can’t. The princess’s overture to friendship is either completely genuine, or she far outclasses Claude as a liar. 

“There has been very little said about what really happened on your last mission,” Edelgard says, eyes narrowing as she regards Claude at the end of the sentence. Claude shrugs noncommittally and takes a sip of his tea. “But I have a theory to your recent… changes, and it has not passed me by that the Golden Deer have been guarding you night and day since you were brought back.” 

Her eyes turn to Claude, though she is still standing facing Byleth. 

“With one high-ranking member of the nobility forbidden to leave your side even for a moment, allegedly on pain of dire gastrointestinal consequences,” she continues, eyebrows arching. 

Her voice turns sharp, her head now fully tilted Claude’s way. 

“I’m assuming because Lorenz’s or Hilda’s sudden disappearance would cause powerful people to ask the Church some very uncomfortable questions, while Leonie’s family could do nothing if something were to happen to her?” 

The words drop from her lips, crisp and precise as they click together into a narrative. 

“I must commend you for looking out for them. Marianne and Lysithea too: one of them meeting misfortune could have been explained away, but not both at the same time.” 

Byleth opens her mouth and closes it again. The furrow between Claude’s eyebrows is all the confirmation she needs. 

Three days, Hilda said. What in the seven hells has been going on during those three days? 

“He hasn’t told you any of this, has he?” Edelgard says, addressing Byleth again. She sighs, glancing at Claude. “I don’t think he knows what’s really happening, either — House Riegan has never been close to the church, and some matters have traditionally been reserved for a… more select group. But he’s right to be wary of the archbishop’s intentions for you.” 

“The Empire can offer you protection that House Riegan cannot, particularly not through a scion of such precarious standing,” she continues. “I can also offer you knowledge. There are traditions passed down within the imperial family that have long been suppressed elsewhere, and no amount of library books can compensate for it.” The last bit is said almost sympathetically, Edelgard’s eyes on Claude. 

“Yeah?” he says. Byleth seeks him with her eyes, and an emotion she can’t name makes her chest clench. His pose is relaxed, his expression convincingly unbothered, but his breathing is just a little too measured. His fingertips are pale where they press against the cup in his hand, immediately filling with color when he notices and eases his grip. “Guess I’ll have to cast a wider net when looking for my next page-turner. Maybe see what security’s like at the imperial archives, even. Any particular recommendations, Princess?” 

“Hmm,” Edelgard hums, eying him in consideration. “Perhaps. A secret for a secret, then?” 

“Oh, I doubt I have any worth your time,” Claude deflects. “Now Rhea on the other hand—” 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Edelgard interrupts, steel flashing in her eyes. “The Alliance seemed to be heading towards certain turmoil after Lord Godfrey’s passing; your sudden appearance must have disrupted quite a few longtime plans.” She tilts her head, considering. “I believe I know who your mother is. But your father? Now that _would_ be an interesting tidbit.” Her eyebrows rise, gaze shifting to Byleth. “What about you, Professor? Has he shared the secret of his parentage with you?” 

Byleth sees a ghost of tension pass over Claude’s easy expression, his nostrils flaring slightly for a blink of a moment. Something about it makes her teeth clench. 

“Stop,” she says, pushing herself more upright with effort. “It doesn’t matter who his father is.” Claude’s eyes flick to her, something uncertain in them. “I chose _him_ , not his lineage,” she says quietly, meeting Edelgard’s eyes. “And I’ll stick to my decision, thank you.” 

Edelgard’s eyes narrow momentarily, before she dips her head in a nod. 

“Very well,” she says, observing them both for an extra moment, one after the other. “The offer stands, Professor. Do be careful in the meantime.” 

She turns around, cape flaring, and sweeps out the door to a calmly waiting Hubert and a harried-looking Lorenz, who immediately steps into the room and closes the door. 

Claude sags against the cupboards he’s leaning against. 

  
“Lorenz, can this wait?” he asks, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been sick, I’ve barely slept in three days and I’d like to talk to Teach before I forget my own name.” 

“It absolutely cannot. My family’s holdings are right at the imperial border, if you insist on antagonizing the princess I simply _must_ be kept informed.” 

Claude waves his hand dismissively. 

“She literally tried to break into my room, I think I’m the one being antagonized here.” He shakes his head as if trying to clear it. “Hoo boy. We’re fine, Lorenz, nothing you need to worry your pretty purple head about. You remember the drill?” 

“Claude, I hardly think the _archbishop_ is going to come snatch people out of their beds, this is paranoid nonsense—” 

“Do. You. Remember.” 

Lorenz throws her a long-suffering look as if he too expects her to reign Claude in. Byleth swallows. Edelgard had said his worries weren’t unfounded. 

What _are_ his worries, anyway? 

“Yes,” Lorenz sighs, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Fine. Have it your way.” 

He stalks out and very deliberately doesn’t slam the door, leaving her and Claude in silence. 

“I don’t understand,” she starts, “what’s happening?” 

Claude doesn’t answer at first, just drops onto the bed like a puppet with his strings cut and pulls her into his arms. 

He’s trembling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Byleth is the absolute _worst_ at secret relationships. 
> 
> Also: Remember the 'do not take safe sex-advice from fanfic' disclaimer from a few weeks back? I'm going to add in another just in case: Do not put fucking aconite in your mouth to be a brat, the shit WILL kill you. 
> 
> ****
> 
> You might have noticed me churning out these chapters at speed lately. The thing is -- while I'm loving working on this story and have a fair bit further half-ready and an outline and a lot of inspiration for the later parts -- I'm also nearly eight months pregnant. Which is awesome, but I hear newborns take a lot of time and I will have to focus on that once the baby is here (if you want to congratulate me on this, please keep in mind that I'm non-binary and will be a parent not a mother etc) so updates are likely to get pretty erratic soon. 
> 
> I was aiming to have this be about 40k words and have it done during the summer, but that... didn't happen, haha. The current draft is approaching 80k. I hope you are enjoying it in its more verbose form and will stick with it regardless of unknown update schedule! We have plenty of more to go of both amusing Deer shenanigans and sudden angst <3


	13. The plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth tries to regain control of her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Iris and Lex for your help <3

Byleth sits there for a moment, trying to parse what exactly is going on while Claude buries his face in her hair. 

“Claude?” she asks after a long moment, her hand cautiously patting between his shoulder blades. 

“I was worried,” he breathes into her shoulder, pulling back enough to look her in the face. His hands slide down her arms, taking her hands in his. “When you were— Before you collapsed, you were saying some things about the goddess. Do you remember?” 

She nods. 

“Could you… elaborate on that?” 

Byleth shrugs awkwardly. 

“I’m not sure what to add,” she says, wetting her lips. “I’ve dreamed about her since I was a child, then — she started speaking to me. The same day I met you in Remire.” 

“And this is _the_ goddess? The Seiros goddess?” 

She nods again, and he releases a breath with an audible _whoosh_ , reclining against the wall. Byleth picks at a small lump in the weave of the sheets. Claude stares at nothing, his eyes far away. 

“You think I’m crazy,” she says after several seconds of silence. 

“No,” he says, blinking his eyes back into focus. “Delusions don’t cut holes in the air. Or do… this.” His fingers flick one pale strand of her hair. “I suppose it explains a lot, actually, it’s just… You know, I have contingency plans for a _lot,_ but I’ve gotta admit, this one kinda blind-sided me.” He takes a slow breath and shakes his head, like he's trying to shake water out of his ears. “How are you feeling? I’m sure it’s even more surreal for you.” 

Byleth tucks her legs up against her chest, resting her chin on her knee. 

“I don’t know,” she says, the only truth she can give him. He extends his arms and she shuffles up against him, leaning on his chest. “What’s going on? Are we safe?” 

“For now,” he says, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “As safe as can be in the monastery, I think. I need to reset the door trap before I fall asleep, but… We’re at one end of a corridor filled with the spawn of most of the senior noble houses in Fódlan, Edelgard has already offered you her protection, and I don’t think Dimitri would take too kindly to you being taken away against your will, even if it was by the Church.” 

Byleth frowns at him in confusion. 

“Why—” 

“And I,” he says in a whisper, vowing it with a quiet certainty that chills her, “am not letting them take you while I can still stand.” 

“What?” she asks. “Why would the Church..?” 

Claude’s eyebrows rise, as if she’s missing an obvious cue. Byleth frantically tries to make sense of the situation. 

“Because…” Claude tries, drawing it out as if to give her a chance to catch up. “You… what, fused? With the goddess? And that pretty much makes you church property in their eyes?” 

She tries to think. She remembers Rhea’s hands on her face while she was too weak to pull herself to full consciousness, words she didn’t understand spoken to her like a prayer. Or maybe like an invocation. 

The memory is uncomfortable. 

“Do they know?” she asks, and Claude snorts. 

“Rhea certainly does,” he says. “I don’t think Seteth does, or Manuela—” 

“She was acting very strange,” Byleth interjects. “Is she—” She chews her lip. She had thought the older woman was well on her way to becoming a friend. “Uncomfortable with me now, or—” 

“That was me,” Claude admits with a grimace. “I kinda… Rhea was acting really creepy — she was trying to seem concerned but she was obviously absolutely fucking _giddy_ , and I wasn’t keen on letting her be alone with you. Manuela wanted me out of the infirmary, and, well. It’s a good thing you told her about us when you did. She might not be too fond of me right now, but I think she’s a romantic at heart.” His lips curl wryly. “If I play up the distraught lover-angle enough she may eventually forgive me.” 

Byleth side-eyes him, one eyebrow rising. 

“I _was_ distraught!” he defends himself. “Enough that I chucked like two days of meals onto the Holy Prince of Faerghus to even get back into the infirmary after she threw me out!” 

Byleth blinks, a small smile growing at the corners of her lips despite her reluctance to let it show. 

“You were so worried you threw up?” 

“I was so worried I downed a very unpleasant cocktail I usually reserve for when I think I’ve ingested something lethal.” His nose scrunches up in distaste at the memory. “And I’m glad I did, because Rhea snuck in while Manuela was sleeping and then ran off when she saw me. And I think,” he says thickly, “that if I hadn’t been there… It might not have been you who woke up today.” 

Byleth shivers, a cold lump forming in her belly. 

“Can that.” She swallows, tries again: “Could she _do_ that?” 

Claude shrugs. 

“Hell if I know — I know she’s trying to do _something_ , and she doesn’t want anyone knowing.” He chews his bottom lip for a moment. “And she looks at you _really_ weirdly.” 

Byleth sucks air into her lungs, trying to _feel_ her body. Is it still, is _she still—_

“Hey,” Claude says gently. His fingers brush her chin, urging her face to tilt up to meet his gaze. “You’re still you,” he says, pecking a kiss to the tip of her nose. “I mean—” he says, chuckling. “With what you just told Edelgard… Not exactly your most hallowed moment, you know?” He shakes his head fondly. “Do you feel any different? Like… any impulses to create worlds, that kind of thing?” 

Byleth shakes her head. She doesn’t think so; she’s exhausted and weak, but after several days unconscious with a high fever that doesn’t seem unexpected. Nothing about her feels… _divine_. She has no new insights about the universe or the nature of time or anything. 

“Only the hair,” she says. 

“And your eyes,” Claude remarks, continuing hurriedly when she snaps said eyes to look at him. “Of course, you can’t see them — they’re kinda like Flayn’s now, hold on…” He twists to the side, leaning towards the nightstand to rummage in a drawer far more packed than any of hers, untangling a hand mirror from the grasping claws of disorganization. 

Byleth accepts it and looks at herself, a strange bereavement washing over her. She swallows, wondering what her father would say. He rarely spoke about his late wife, but Byleth does remember him saying she looked like her mother a few times. 

Now even that is being taken away. 

“They’re pretty,” Claude assures her gently, plucking the mirror from her unresisting hand. “But I understand it must be strange.” 

She nods and presses closer to him, her arm hooking around him and pulling close, trying to anchor herself. 

“So what now?” she asks, voice muffled against his chest. 

Claude sighs and loops his arms around her shoulders. 

“We leave. I’m counting on Rhea not wanting a dozen very noble witnesses to your abduction, but tomorrow, we leave this room with the rest of the Deer for breakfast, go by your room for anything personal — your dad’s diary, say, nothing big — and then we disappear on our own terms.” 

“ _What?_ ” Byleth blinks at him owlishly. 

“It’s all planned. I have some resources in place to whisk us away to Derdriu. I think you’ll be safe there — the Church’s style leans more toward open engagement than sneaking in and kidnapping people, but if it seems like Rhea would risk armed conflict with the Alliance to recover you we’ll put you on a ship. I, uh, have some contacts outside of Fódlan. She won’t get to you there. Incidentally,” he says, scratching his chin. “Do you remember her exact phrasing when she gave you the Sword of the Creator? Is it gifted or lent out?” 

Byleth shakes herself free of his embrace and faces him. 

“I can’t leave,” she says. “I have responsibilities. My students— _you_ rely on me. I can’t leave two months before graduation.” 

Claude snorts derisively. 

“Or what?” he says. His face forms a poor mimicry of alarm, his voice turning teasing. “We’ll miss out on our diplomas? Oh no! Whatever shall we do? We’ll be out on the _streets!_ ” he wails, pressing the back of his hand dramatically against his forehead. “I suppose we’ll have to rent Lorenz out by the hour —” 

Byleth’s jaw clenches in affront, and she does her best to get the feeling across in a look. Claude is not to be dissuaded. 

“ _Gods_ , Lysithea might have to eat _wholegrain_ —” 

“Ha ha,” she says, voice clipped. She glares at him until he looks at least mildly chastised. 

“Sorry,” he says with a slight shrug. “Don’t get me wrong, we all appreciate your hard work and all, but this is a school for the nobility.” He makes a face. “ It’s not really about learning, it’s about networking.” 

_Oh_. 

She bites back the hurt. Is that what they all think, she wonders, remembering the countless hours she’s spent pouring over individual lesson plans for each of her students. No, she decides. Hilda, maybe, though both she and Claude have come a long way despite their attitudes. But Lysithea isn’t here to _socialize_ , and she knows her efforts have helped Marianne, and Ignatz, even Lorenz. 

“For you, maybe,” she says, carefully swallowing down the anger and pulling her knees up to her chest. “But think of Leonie. Her entire village put themselves into debt to send her here. She’ll be paying that off for her entire life and still not be done if she doesn’t graduate.” 

Claude’s nose scrunches in thought. 

“I could settle it for her,” he offers, and Byleth scoffs. 

“She won’t let you. She wants a job, not charity.” 

He raises an eyebrow. 

“Oh yeah? She could come work for me. I could pay her as if she’d graduated, whatever. How is that different from you hiring her into your company?” 

Byleth gives him a long look, but no, this seems to be entirely uncharted waters to Mr. People Person. 

“Pride,” she says, not bothering to elaborate. She takes a deep breath and considers her options, knows that she has already made up her mind. 

“I’m not running,” she says. 

“Look, Teach, it’s sweet that you’re so concerned about us and all, but I can look out for the Deer.” 

“That’s not the only reason. This is my home. My parents are buried here.” 

“You hadn’t even been here a year ago.” He takes both her hands in his. “By. I’m serious,” he says, as if explaining to a child. “You’re not safe here, and you need to leave.” 

She frowns, annoyed at the way he’s speaking over her. Three days — no, longer than that. She’s spent the past month in a fog, and their affair is only one part of how their dynamic has changed. 

She wasn’t leading, so he picked up her slack. And he’s always been good at getting his way. 

“You weren’t there,” he continues, voice low but driven. Determined. “The way she was looking at you — you’re not a _person_ to her, you’re…” He pauses to choose his words, biting his lip. His eyes are troubled when he fixes them on her, trying to convince. “You’re like gift-wrapping. She’ll tear you apart to get at the prize inside.” 

She shudders, disturbed by the mental image. Her fingers go unbidden to the scar down her chest. 

“Do you think she wants to,” she says, pressing against the scar. “Cut me open again..?” 

“No.” He sighs, pushing his hair out of his face. It’s drooping, greasy at the roots. “I think she wants to summon the goddess into you, and I don’t think she cares if you’re erased in the process.” 

“Claude…” 

“Please.” He says, his layers dropping away. He looks as exhausted as she feels, something raw in his eyes. “Just go. I can’t lose you, not now.” 

“You won’t,” she says, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “I don’t think she can hurt me, I—” 

“She can!” he cuts her off. Swallows. “She will, she’s planning something. Don’t make me play dirty, because by the gods, I _will_ if that is what it takes to save your life—” 

“It’s not your choice!” she snaps, temper flaring. She glares him down until his shoulders hunch defensively. “I don’t trust her, no,” she says, staring at his sullen expression through narrowed eyes until he turns his face away. “I don’t have to. I trust Sothis.” 

Claude’s glance twitches her way for a moment before going back to staring stubbornly at the bedsheets. 

“That’s her name,” she explains, sighing. She needs to make him _understand_. “The goddess. She could have left me in the void,” she says, willing him to look at her. It fails. “But she gave herself up instead, to save me. Don’t you see?” she asks, pleading with him. “If there’s a chance to bring her back, I have to try.” 

He sighs a breath through his nose, finally looking up again. 

“You love her,” he says, and Byleth supposes that it’s true. She shrugs a little. “Do you— I’m not asking you to choose between us or anything, just… You never really said.” He wets his lips. She’s expecting him to ask about her feelings, and while she’s not good at articulating them in words she thinks she can manage. If she loves Sothis, she certainly loves Claude too. 

But that is not what he asks, eyes guarded yet somehow pleading with her. 

“When you came here… Why _did_ you pick me?” 

Byleth holds her breath for a moment. This is important to him, she can tell. She wishes she had an answer to satisfy him. 

She settles on honesty as the best option she has. 

“I thought — if I was making connections for the future, then Faerghus is too cold and the Empire is too hot, and —” 

Claude cuts her off with a sound she’s not sure is a laugh or a sob. It might be both. 

“For real?” he asks, voice choked. “You walk into my life, you change _everything_ , my whole life, because you _like the weather in Leicester?”_

She shrugs helplessly. 

“You made me smile,” she tries, reaching for his hand. 

“Well _go me_ ,” he mutters, pulling it away and crossing his arms. “Look, I’m sorry if I got this wrong. You’re not obligated to love me back just because you want to fuck me —” 

“Claude,” she says, pressing him back against the headboard and kissing him. Her hands cup his face. “That was then. I know you now.” She presses them together brow to brow, nose to nose. “You’ve changed me too. I…” She’s never said these words before. Should have said them to her father, but never thought to until it was too late. She’s not making that mistake again, she decides. “I love you.” 

He sighs once, tense body slowly softening against her. His eyes are closed, not crying, just squeezed tightly together. His hand covers hers over his cheek in an echo of the first time they kissed. 

“Then please: don’t make me watch you die,” he whispers, his lips close enough that she can feel his words on her skin like little flutters in the air. “I’m begging you. Run.” 

Byleth shivers, but stays adamant. 

“No.” 

“Pity. Could have worked.” His arms curl around her back, his face burrowing back into her hair as he pulls her flush. “Then I really, really hope you’re right.” 

* * *

She steels herself for a moment before knocking on the ornate doors to the audience chamber. Calm, the face she donned as the Ashen Demon firmly fixed over her new and softer self. When she steps inside on Rhea’s invitation, her reflection in the polished floor nearly startles her out of it: she’s not used to her bright new hair yet. 

It makes her almost look like the woman waiting for her. 

Rhea smiles, that warm, indulgent smile that had initially jarred her so much in light of her father’s warnings. It still fills her with wariness, yet she steps ahead, walking into the lion’s den playing the role of unwitting prey. 

Seteth’s presence soothes her, somewhat. He looks about as uncomfortable as she feels, like he’s buttoned his collar much too tight. 

“Professor,” Rhea says warmly. “I am so glad to finally get to talk to you after your ordeal. Tell me, do you feel different?” 

Byleth keeps her face neutral. Her father didn’t trust this woman, believing she was behind his wife’s death and Byleth’s peculiarity. Sothis shared his unease. Claude’s description of the past few days and her own faint recollections do nothing to change that evaluation. 

“A little weak, still,” she answers. 

Rhea smiles sympathetically. 

“Of course. Tell me — I can tell from the changes wrought in you that the Goddess has blessed you with her touch, but your companions have not been forthcoming in exactly what happened to you. The girl Monica was an impostor, was she? And she ‘cast you into the darkness’?” 

_Ah_ , Byleth thinks, recognizing the phrasing. Claude seems well on his way to bringing Lorenz into the fold, but clearly giving him a gag order against the archbishop was pushing his loyalty too far. 

So what does she say? Rhea must know about Sothis, she put her there herself, but how much does she know? She can’t understand the shape of the — Possession? Byleth has never minded sharing her mind with Sothis, but she’s not sure what other word to use — or she would have tried to talk to the goddess while she was still _there_. 

Byleth decides to skirt the subject entirely. 

“Monica was actually an assassin named Kronya — I think the real Monica was killed when she disappeared last year, just as the real Tomas must have been. It was he — the one who replaced him, Solon — who cast the spell.” Byleth swallows, her throat dry. Lying has never come naturally to her, even by omission, but she has no desire to share her conversation with Sothis. 

It was _theirs_. 

That, and Sothis’s own wariness about Rhea has her firmly determined to share nothing at all. 

“The power of the sword let me break free of it,” she says. It’s true, after all, just not the entire truth. “Solon and Kronya are both dead.” 

Rhea waits as if expecting more, but Byleth stays silent, doing her best to give the impression of a soldier that has reported all they know and are waiting for dismissal. 

“… And at what point did your hair and eyes change?” Rhea prompts, and Byleth feigns ignorance. 

“When I cut myself out of the spell,” she hazards. Rhea looks skeptical, so Byleth elaborates, trying to recall all the details her students might have seen. “There was a great flash of light, and then I felt very dizzy. I tried to help the students, but they finished Solon off themselves.” 

“You sound proud,” Rhea says fondly. Then, more pointedly — “Did you hear her voice?” Her tone makes Seteth turn to glance at her. 

Byleth deliberately misunderstands. 

“Kronya’s? She was already dead,” she says. This isn’t so hard — she wonders if this is how Claude feels all the time. 

Rhea sighs. Byleth isn’t sure if she believes her or if she doesn’t want to push the issue in front of Seteth. 

“Very well. Perhaps the Goddess is still waiting to reveal herself to you, but I have no doubt that she has chosen you.” _No_ , Byleth thinks dryly. _You did that_. “As soon as you are recovered, you will visit the Holy Tomb, where you may receive a divine revelation.” 

Byleth startles. 

“Tomb?” she asks. “Is that different from the mausoleum?” 

“Yes,” Seteth cuts in, addressing her as he speaks but turning his face to Rhea, eyebrows arching delicately. “The Holy Tomb has been kept a closely guarded secret for hundreds of years. Not even the cardinals know its location.” 

“It is time,” Rhea answers him cryptically. Then, turning her eyes to Byleth again, she continues. “It is said that when Saint Seiros was first called to the Goddess’s service, she received her revelation there. I believe that the Goddess will share her voice with you as well.” 

Byleth keeps her face blank, but wonders if Sothis would say the same kind of things to Saint Seiros as she’s been nagging her about — complaining about her sticking to her favorites when the dining hall is full of options to try, or about fishing being boring, or about how she’s bored of sparring practice and grading assignments and can’t they visit Enbarr and go to the opera? 

Too late for that now, she thinks, only willpower keeping her jaw from tensing, her nostrils from flaring with emotion. If going to this Holy Tomb would grant her one more instance of Sothis berating her for her carelessness, or chattering like an excited child to draw Byleth’s attention to some trinket in a market stall that has caught her fancy, then she will gladly go every day — but that’s not what Rhea intends, is it? 

Rhea doesn’t know that Sothis has already spoken to her. Rhea doesn’t know that she is already _gone_. 

“It is said that Seiros had holy warriors by her side when she received her revelation, protecting her. I have already asked some senior Knights to accompany us.” 

“Us?” Byleth asks, a prickle of unease tingling down her spine. She is not eager to follow Rhea and a contingent of her most loyal cronies into a secret tomb that no one knows about. It sounds exactly like the kind of place where Claude’s fears might come true. 

“I am the head of the Church of Seiros,” Rhea explains kindly. “It is far too significant an occasion to be missed, and I believe you may need some counsel in interpreting her message.” 

“Perhaps I’d better come too,” Seteth interjects, and Rhea shoots him down with a beatific smile. 

“You will be needed here to manage any emerging situations,” she says, and while Byleth can spot that being an excuse and not at all the real reason a mile away, it’s difficult to argue against given recent events. Seteth doesn’t look happy about it, but he also doesn’t argue. 

“My students should come with me,” Byleth says. “They’re who I want for my warriors.” 

“Dear Professor.” Rhea smiles. “The Holy Tomb is the innermost sanctum of the Church. We do not enforce piety within the student body, but I hardly think it appropriate to—” 

“I insist.” Byleth keeps her tone calm, but she can feel her eyes setting in the stubborn expression that always made her father chuckle. “I’m not a believer either.” 

It’s true, she reflects. Oh, she believes in Sothis the person. But in the stories, or in the Church’s divinely sanctioned authority? Either the Sothis of old was very different from the one who took up residence in Byleth’s head, or the saint who founded her church wasn’t very good at representing her will. 

Or it was corrupted over the centuries, a little voice that sounds rather like Claude supplies in her head. 

“If I’m allowed in, they should be too.” 

“I’m afraid my concern is not purely theological,” Rhea explains kindly. “The Church cannot be seen to favor one nation. There would be political ramifications.” 

“Then bring all of them,” Byleth says, recalling Claude’s strategy for keeping her safe during the night. “A revelation from the goddess must be a big occasion. Why not let the future leaders of Fódlan witness it?” 

Rhea hesitates for a moment, face perfectly still, then smiles indulgently. 

“Very well,” she says. “The three house leaders will witness your ascension with me.” 

_Ascension?_ Her throat constricts. _Don’t make me watch you die_ , Claude had begged her. She’s suddenly afraid of doing just that. 

“The rest of the students may accompany us, but they will stand back and not disturb the ceremony.” 

Byleth nods, suppressing the urge to swallow nervously. 

She wonders if she’s putting them all at risk, how Rhea really weighs the lives of the student body against the possibility of raising her goddess incarnate. _Flayn_ , she thinks, glancing at Seteth’s troubled face. Is he wondering the same thing? 

They are seasoned warriors by now, she tells herself, suppressing the mental image of Catherine tearing through them, their skill no match for her relic. They’ll be alright. 

Better all of them protecting each other than having Claude sneak in on his own, which she has no doubt he’d find a way to do. And if he did… 

One student too curious for his own good could so easily have an accident, couldn’t he? They wouldn’t even have to strike him down, she thinks, blood curdling cold in her stomach. Everyone has seen him climbing things he shouldn’t. Nobody would doubt it if Rhea said he fell to his death. 

Hell, _she_ wouldn’t be entirely sure. 

She straightens her back. She decided to go through with this; unless she wants to reconsider running, taking them all along is the least bad option she has. 

She clears her throat. 

“When do we depart?” 

* * *

Eleven days. Eleven days for some of the key members of their entourage to return from their missions, and for herself to be ‘prepared’, whatever that means. 

Then she’s going into the tomb, to… what? Recover Sothis? Summon Sothis? _Become_ Sothis? 

She agrees with Claude’s assessment, she thinks. There is something disturbing about the glint in Rhea’s eyes. 

“Well!” the man in question says right behind her, announcing himself. He hurries down the stairs to catch up. “That was illuminating.” 

Byleth blinks at him and picks a tangle of spiderweb off his epaulet. 

“You were listening?” 

“Not here,” he hushes, hooking his arm through hers. “C’mon.” 

He leads her down the stairs and guides her towards the classrooms, deserted at this time of day. “Yeah. Remember the stacks, above the library? They run parallel to the audience chamber, and the mortar’s in pretty bad shape.” The wind chills her as they hurry across the courtyard, ducking into the Deer’s classroom to avoid a couple of knights. The chandelier is unlit, only embers glowing in the hearth. Byleth builds up the fire while Claude leans back against a pillar. “I was there before you came in. Whatever Rhea’s up to, Seteth isn’t a fan.” He pauses for a second, sucking on his bottom lip. “He’s read your father’s diary too. Before you took it.” 

Byleth stiffens. It was bad enough when Claude bullied it out of her hands — at least he had the decency to let her _know_. The fact that _Seteth_ has taken liberties with her father’s secrets, with hers, makes her feel queasy. Who _else_ knows? 

“He was pressuring Rhea about it. I think he’d stand up for you if it came to that, though she may just run him over.” 

Resentment flares into chill fury. 

_Rhea_. That’s who really knows her secrets. That’s who’s really taken liberties with her and her family’s lives. 

“Thanks for getting us in there, by the way,” Claude continues. “All the scary Rhea business aside — If there really is a revelation of some kind I think it’s the sort of thing I’d need to see with my own eyes.” 

Byleth glances at him over her shoulder, considering him for a second. 

“You said you believed me.” 

“I do, I do. But, well — this girl living in your head, she doesn’t really sound like how the goddess is usually described. I’m just curious, is all.” The fire catches, and Claude pushes off the pillar, crouching at her side. “Another thing: Rhea said something before you came in. She’s been in this tomb before and heard something, when she was young. The goddess, she thinks. Now I’m not sure how old she really is — she was arch-bishop when my mom was a student here, but — did your goddess ever mention that?” 

Byleth blinks. 

“Your mother was a student here?” she asks. 

Claude looks back at her quizzically. 

“…yeah?” He angles back, drops smoothly off his feet onto his ass, folding his legs in front of him. “Most Alliance nobility attend.” 

Byleth frowns, looking at his confused face as she evaluates what she knows about him and what are just assumptions. He must have some connection by blood to the Riegans, or he wouldn’t have the crest. She’s pretty sure he’s at least part Almyran. There have been several attempts on his life since he was a small child, and while she hasn’t wanted to ask, it hadn’t taken much digging to discover that a near dozen Riegans and Riegan relatives have met unexpected ends over the past fifteen years. 

She’s been assuming he’s the bastard offspring of some member of the family who’d rather not be exposed for their indiscretion, but only preconceptions made her assume that someone to be a man. And Edelgard had mentioned his mother. 

“Your mother is a Riegan?” she asks, putting the pieces together. 

There is a moment of silence. 

Then: 

“Yes?” Claude looks confused. “I thought you knew that?” He tugs the chain with the ring on it out of his collar, frowning at her. “My mother is Tiana von Riegan,” he says as if the name should mean something to her. When it’s clear that it doesn’t he elaborates with raised eyebrows. “Daughter of the current duke, disappeared without a trace twenty years ago?” 

Byleth tilts her head. 

“Kind of the scandal of the decade?” 

He’s still looking expectantly at her. 

“Not ringing any bells?” he asks, eyebrow crooked. 

She tries tilting her head further. 

“Huh. And here I thought I was being candid.” He pulls the chain over his head, pointing at the tiny engraving of his crest on the back of the stone. “See?” 

“But you didn’t want Edelgard to talk about her?” she asks. “Yesterday, with Lorenz and Hilda.” 

He scrunches his nose up, carefully tucking the ring back inside his shirt. 

“It’s kinda… A lot of the Alliance nobility suspect, and the _suggestion_ that I might be her son gives me this — air of mystery, I guess. A bit of glamour, with just enough decadence to make me fascinating. But if it were to be confirmed, it’d just be vulgar. Everyone would be hounding me to find out where she went and who my dad is and whether I was born out of wedlock or not.” 

He sighs, tucking his legs in closer to his body. 

“Thanks, by the way,” he says, swallowing. “For not asking.” 

Byleth nods slowly, thinking back. 

“Was it true, the other thing you told me?” she asks. “That she fell in love?” 

His smile is small, crooked, but warms her like the sun peeking through the clouds. 

“Yeah,” he says, reaching out to nudge his knuckle across her jawline, finger trailing up to brush the corner of her lips. Her smile mimics his. “Heart and soul, head over heels, all that storybook stuff. She left everything to be with him, and he, well—” He chuckles, looking down in embarrassment. “I used to think they were _mad_ , the both of them, but…” His cheeks are tinted pink when he looks back up to meet her eyes, grinning impishly. “I think I’m starting to understand them better.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, have a little concentrated sap after all the sadness we've had lately <3
> 
> Life update: Baby is well and staying put for now! My ambition is to manage one or two more chapters before I have to go on hiatus for a while, but babies are not very good at time-keeping so who knows. I'm very exited about next chapter so I look forward to working on it.


	14. The revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude is surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic violence, prepubescent deities not respecting Claude's privacy, and gratuitous em-dashes. 
> 
> This chapter turned long, but there was no good place to cut it in two.

“I have a question,” Claude asks Byleth one night, fingers idly tangling with hers. The sweat is cooling on his skin, goosebumps rising on his exposed arms and shoulders, but at least Byleth is warm. Nothing else in her room seems to be. 

“Hmm?” She stirs from her near slumber, her fingers continuing their slow scratch through the short hair at the back of his neck. It makes him want to curl up and purr. 

“This goddess of yours, Sothis,” he says, feeling blindly for the blanket and pulling it up to his chin. Byleth makes a noise of annoyance and shoves it off, Claude clinging to his corner until they get it arranged in a way that is tolerable for them both. “Are you saying — all those times I was speculating on religion, she was _right there_ , listening?” 

Byleth chuckles softly, her breath stirring his hair as she speaks. 

“Sometimes,” she says. “When she wasn’t asleep.” 

“Well?” He pushes himself up from the cozy spot tucked against her side to where he can look at her properly. Her eyes open in reluctant slits that glint in the low light. “Was I close? Way off? You know, I’m actually a little upset that you had the answers right there in your head and still let me go on? In front of a literal deity. Did I look like an idiot?” 

“No,” Byleth says, but she’s smiling. Smiling _suspiciously_. Like a _liar_. “It wasn’t really like that,” she mumbles, closing her eyes again. “She didn’t remember a lot. She only even realized who she was a short time before…” She gestures to herself with a hand, catching a few strands of hair in her fingers. “This.” 

“Soo… no chance of definite answers to a few theological quandaries, then?” 

“I doubt it,” Byleth says, hiding a yawn behind her fist. Smacking her lips contentedly, she places her hand in the middle of his chest and pushes him back to the mattress, crawling half on top of him to keep him from getting up again. Her fingers close around the ring hanging from his neck, watching the candlelight sparkle in the stone. “She wasn’t very interested in books or history. She liked dancing.” She pauses, peering up at him with that little fishhook grin on her lips, and he smiles back. He can’t help it, no matter how much she tries to give him hypothermia. That particular smile is reserved for him. 

It’s adorable. 

“I think,” she says, oblivious in her smugness to the depth of his infatuation. “That she thought you were boring.” 

Claude gasps in mock offense, and Byleth giggles. 

“She seemed — I don’t know, ten years old? She liked hearing about people, and parties, and music. She never fell asleep when I was talking to Hilda.” 

He snorts. 

“Please, for the sake of my sanity: you can _never_ let her know that she had the ear of a god.” He sneaks his arms around her and pulls her more fully onto his chest, nuzzling his face into her neck. Ever since her transformation, she’s smelled a little bit different. Like something powerful, something raw and fresh and ancient. Like the air after a thunderstorm. “Well, that’s the state of the world explained, then. Created by a pre-pubescent girl with no attention span.” Another thought strikes him and he blinks his eyes open, realization dawning with slow horror. “Wait,” he says. 

“Mmm?” 

“Was she. You know. Watching everything?” 

Byleth yawns. 

“The parts she was awake for.” 

“What about…” He gestures between them. “This? Us?” His voice definitely does not rise into a squeak. 

Byleth looks at him, tilting her head. 

“When we fuck?” she asks, utterly failing to be weirded out. 

Claude nods, in the interest of not squeaking, and Byleth shrugs a shoulder. She scratches at her butt before answering. 

“She’d… turn her back, sort of.” 

He might have made a sound. He definitely makes a _face_ , because Byleth, crude, _mean_ mercenary that she is, laughs at his embarrassment. 

“She created humanity, didn’t she?” she asks, flopping off of him to lie on her back. Her hand reaches for his, threading their fingers together. “And watched them for thousands of years?” 

“Supposedly, but— as there are clearly people _outside of Fódlan_ I’m a little hazy on—” 

“So,” Byleth cuts him off as if he wasn’t speaking, “yours is hardly the first dick she’s seen.” 

Claude pauses, and tries several different grimaces before he finds one that feels right. 

“Okay,” he says through the fixed expression, “point conceded. I’m still a little uncomfy with how _up close_ she might have seen mine.” 

“Don’t worry, it’s not that special,” Byleth states confidently, and Claude’s protest dies in a stutter. She was a virgin, he thinks, willing the heat away from his cheeks. How would she even know that? “One man in the company had his cut off in an ambush,” she continues happily, “He had a replacement made in leather. One time a dog stole it.” She gives his apparently unremarkable endowment a friendly pat. This is an attempt at comforting him, he realizes. Great. “Another had a ring through the head. He’d show it to everyone when he was drunk.” 

She sounds nostalgic, as if someone whipping his dick out when sloshed was the pinnacle of the performing arts. More anecdotes follow, because it seems like shame, and occasionally trousers, are in short supply in Jeralt’s company. Claude stares up at the ceiling in defeat. 

* * *

Another book, another dead end. Claude sighs and rubs his eyes. Nothing about the Holy Tomb in that one either, he thinks, closing the old memoir. 

Four days left, and he still hasn’t found the damn tomb. There are vague references scattered throughout the older texts — it’s never explicitly mentioned, but when he knows what he’s looking for he can spot the shape of the omissions. He can find no hints to its location though — Seteth or his great-great predecessor did a very thorough job scrubbing any traces of it out of the library. 

Perhaps the library back in Derdriu would yield more results. Some of those volumes are old, and the Church’s censors wouldn’t be as welcome. Pity he didn’t think of that a week ago, when he might have had a chance of making it there and back again before the ceremony. 

Time for plan B, then. His own wits exhausted, he picks up one of the scrolls he’s squirreled away for a purpose just like this and sets out to cajole plan B into helping. 

“Morning, Lin,” he says, slipping the doorlatch — and people wonder why he’s modified his own lock, that took _seconds_ — and sticking his head in the room. Linhardt glances at him over his shoulder, graces him with an indifferent nod, and turns back to his book. 

Claude’s mouth goes dry. Yes, these days he considers himself a one woman kind of man, but that doesn’t mean his eyes have stopped working, or that the graceful curve of Linhardt’s bare back is without appeal. 

“Did you want something?” Linhardt asks, shifting slightly to reach for a notebook. The thick duvet slides over his skin until the dimples at the base of his spine are visible, and Claude should _stop looking now,_ he has promised himself elsewhere. 

He peeks anyway. It’s more fascination than lust, really — Linhardt is just so _smooth._ He looks like he’s never even had a blister in his life, and something in Claude stubbornly wants to run his hands over his skin, see if it’s really that flawless up close — (It is. He’s checked.) — and then leave a few marks of his own. (He has, but Linhardt just healed them away.) 

“I’ve got something for you.” 

“Hmm?” Linhardt glances his way, the bare minimum of polite attention needed to acknowledge him as a fellow human being suddenly sharpening when he spots the aged scroll in Claude’s hand. “Oh! Forgive me, I thought you meant yourself and I’m in the middle of something. What’s that?” 

Claude wags the scroll, choosing to not take it personally. 

“Crest of Cethleann in the western holdings, now the Kingdom, second to sixth centuries. Relatives of yours?” 

“Possibly,” Linhardt says, his eyebrows rising in interest. He extends a hand expectantly. 

“Ah-ah,” Claude says, holding the scroll out of reach. Linhardt is taller than he is, but Claude figures he’s safe: taking advantage of that fact would require getting out of bed. “I need your help figuring something out first. I’m trying to find the Holy Tomb.” 

“Oh, for the ceremony?” Success; Linhardt flips his book closed, sticking the notebook between the pages to mark his place. “Yes, it’s quite fascinating,” he says, sitting up. The duvet pools around his waist, Linhardt completely unconcerned by his nakedness. “Tell me: are there any other physical changes to the professor? Hanneman conducted a thorough examination, but he neglected to do one before her transformation so there’s nothing to reference.” 

Claude chokes a little and tries to cover it with coughing. Does _everybody_ know? 

“Uh,” he says, eyes darting over Linhardt’s face. No jealous anger, just academic interest. “None that I noticed?” He swallows thickly. Linhardt seems perfectly content, but they at least have to acknowledge that they slept together, right? “Sorry. I should have let you know about us myself, huh?” 

“Hm? Goodness, what for?” 

Claude shrugs a shoulder, gesturing between them. True, he’d never interpreted their trysts as having strings attached, but he likes Lin and his encyclopedic memory is damn useful. Claude would hate to lose access to it by stumbling over unwritten Fódlani relationship rules. 

Then again, he doubts Linhardt of all people would put stock in them, if he’s aware of them at all. 

“We never really set any terms for our…” he waits, hoping for a hint. Linhardt looks at him inquisitively. “…fling?” 

“Oh, that.” Linhardt waves a hand dismissively. “Dorothea told me months ago that she’d twist my ear off if I got in the way of your infatuation with the professor.” He taps his chin with his index finger in thought. “She’s remarkably invested, you know.” 

Claude sighs, but leans back against the wall with a grin. 

“She thinks it’s a funny way to stick it to the nobility. Lorenz in particular.” 

Linhardt considers it for a moment, then chuckles to himself. His fingers absently drag over the corners of the pages of the book he was reading, flipping the paper with a soft _rrtsch_. 

“You know, I’ve hardly come across it at all,” he says, and Claude flounders for a moment before he remembers his original question. “But it’s supposed to be the original shrine, yes? Where Saint Seiros prayed.” 

“So they say.” 

“Well, the monastery wasn’t founded until after the war. And since we haven’t stumbled on it, I’d assume it’s underground?” He purses his lips, thinking. “The cathedral prides itself on sitting on the highest peak of the mountains. If I were building a shrine — well if _I_ was building a shrine it would be on a flat surface downriver from a quarry. But if I was the sort of person who builds shrines on mountains, I expect I’d want it at the highest point as well.” He taps his chin. “There are catacombs underneath the cathedral. I’ve actually been charting parts of them, hold on…” 

Claude tunes the muttering out as Linhardt ambles around, naked except the duvet around his shoulders, rifling through stacks of paper. Seiros prayed at the Tomb. But Seiros was supposed to be buried in the mausoleum, in the casket that turned out to contain the Sword of the Creator… 

Hold on a second. 

If Seiros is accounted for — which okay, she isn’t, her remains are conspicuously absent, but even if she has a secret real grave she wouldn’t have been praying at it herself. And in that case… 

_Holy shit_ , he thinks, an incredulous grin splitting his face. 

Is that what they’ve been hiding, even from their own cardinals? They think their goddess is _dead?_ Not dead as in the star she lives on disappears from the night sky for a few months every year, but dead as in they went and buried her and then covered it up from the faithful. He’s been wrong about them. They didn’t make up a conveniently xenophobic deity to prop up their isolationist policy. Nobody who makes up a goddess to justify their rule is dumb enough to kill her off. No, they _believe_. 

And now an entity who claims to be that goddess turns out to have been living in Byleth’s head. So if she’s real — really a goddess, really the creator of… the world, or Fódlan — _not the same thing_ , he wants to scream every time the damn Seirosian texts get them confused — then why shouldn’t the Almyran gods be real too. 

Maybe they had a falling out with Sothis aeons ago and would be as offended by his existence as their priests are. Or, and the thought is comforting, maybe they are as misrepresented as Sothis seems to be. Maybe the gods are really watching, and they don’t hate him. Sothis doesn’t seem to. 

“Ah, here they are!” Linhardt brandishes a sheet covered in his illegible scrawl. “You can access them from a drainage gate by the side of the cathedral. You’d better wait until dark, though.” 

“Nevermind,” Claude says, grinning like the sun. “I know where it is.” 

* * *

“The Goddess tower?” Linhardt asks, looking the ancient tower up and down. “I suppose it _is_ old. And it doesn’t really fit with the rest of the architecture.” 

Claude nods and tries the door. It’s locked, only left open on that one night of the year. When he finishes with the lock and steps inside, he is starkly reminded of waiting for Byleth here, heart in his throat, how he felt like he could almost reach out and touch his dreams when she smiled at him and held his hand. 

Her eyes were so bright, then. Ever since Jeralt died there has been a shadow in their depths. 

He also remembers the stairs, and how he didn’t fall to his death climbing them in the dark. On the night of the dance, some kind soul had left candles in a box by the door. He fumbles for it, his fingers brushing wood just as Linhardt snaps his fingers behind him and lights a small lantern, three out of the four sides of it covered over. 

Claude lights a candle off it, sticking a few more in his pockets. The way up is worn smooth by generations of students. The way down is hidden behind a few old barrels and blocked by a heavy iron grille, moss growing on the steps they can see vanishing into the darkness. 

It takes them more than an hour to get through, another to get down the stairs without leaving obvious traces, and most of the night to find the secret room carved into the rock itself. There’s nothing in it save a deep groove tracing a circle on the floor, and an odd metal panel, etched with intricate patterns, on a little stand in the middle of it. 

It doesn’t react to anything either of them tries. 

* * *

He wanted a moment with her before the ceremony starts. There were some words he wanted to say, just… just in case. 

Rhea makes sure he doesn’t get it. 

The archbishop and her entourage knocks on Byleth’s door so early in the morning it’s still the middle of the night. Claude has time enough to tug his shirt over his head before someone sticks a key in the lock, and he barely manages to dive back under the blankets before they get an eyeful. 

The knights exchanges looks, jostling as they nudge and whisper to each other. The look Rhea bestows upon him could freeze the fish pond. 

“Ah,” she says. “Young lord Claude.” She sounds as if she’s stepping the syllables past dog shit on the street. 

“Lady Rhea,” he responds with his most ingratiating smile. 

Damn. He will have to come up with one _inspired_ slew of bullshit to explain what he is doing, naked, in his professor’s bed. Catherine pokes at his underwear with the toe of her boot, smirking at him under a raised eyebrow. Claude feels the heat rising in his cheeks. 

“Come, Professor,” Rhea says, choosing to pretend he’s not there. “It is time.” 

Byleth meets his eyes for a moment, then she looks down, grabs his hand and squeezes it before nodding silently. Claude feels his lips press flat between his teeth and forces his face back to a neutral expression. He dips his chin in assent, moving to get out of bed, but Shamir stops him with a raised palm. She motions for Byleth to climb past him, and Byleth hesitates. Her eyes flick to Rhea, who smiles and inclines her head in encouragement. 

Byleth gives his hand one final squeeze and steps naked onto the carpet, graciously leaving him the bed covers. Rhea takes both her hands in hers, smiling that smile that gives Claude chills. She wraps Byleth in a white robe before leading her away, surrounded by her knights. Catherine throws him a mocking salute before taking up position at their rear, leaving Shamir reclining against the doorpost and blocking his way. 

“We had a feeling she might have company,” she says, pulling a dagger from somewhere and beginning to clean her nails with it. “Do you know your shirt is outside in?” 

“Are you keeping me here?” he asks, shuffling out of bed with a blanket clamped around his waist and trying to get his pants on underneath it. 

“Try to leave,” she suggests. “We’ll find out.” 

She doesn’t, in the end, keep him locked in Byleth’s room, but she does stick to him like a shadow. He eats breakfast in tense silence, the dining hall empty save for the occasional guard passing through. Shamir leans back against a pillar where she can keep an eye on him, presumably to keep him out of Rhea’s way until the ceremony — or through it, he thinks grimly. What’s to say Byleth isn’t being led to the Tomb right now, the people who would have had her back sleeping soundly in their beds expecting it to start at a comfortable midmorning hour. 

Shit, he should find her. The entrance has got to be there, in that room under the Goddess Tower — he could claim he wants to go the the cathedral to pray. Shamir might not _believe_ him, but what’s she going to say to deny him? As long as the confrontation stays verbal he has the upper hand… 

She’s gone. 

Unease prickles down his spine. Did she… _leave?_ He glances around, the hairs on his forearms standing up, but can’t see her anywhere. He holds his breath but can’t hear a thing. He knows she’s quiet — quiet enough that she could have left, he thinks, and wouldn’t that be an effective use of resources: him sitting there sweating under her imagined scrutiny, while Shamir squeezes in a quick assassination, or maybe a nice relaxing bath. 

Well, even if she _is_ still around she’s hardly going to hurt him for just walking through the— 

“Boo,” she says, from right behind him, and Claude shrieks in surprise. 

She does allow him to go to the cathedral. He passes several hours there, impersonating Marianne at prayer while keeping a watchful eye on the entrance to the Goddess Tower, until the bell rings marking the time for their assembly. Shamir, visible this time, arcs an eyebrow at him and silently escorts him back to the academy. 

Most of the Deer are already in attendance when he walks into the classroom. Ignatz has his sketchpad out, always hopeful of a glimpse of the goddess. Lorenz has sharpened his hair: Marianne next to him, always on the verge of falling apart, looks even more of a wreck next to his crisp lines. Claude wonders if she’s slept at all. 

“ _That_ is how you choose to present yourself at the religious event of the century?” Lorenz demands, hands grasping at him. Claude narrows his eyes but tolerates him straightening his collar, Lorenz’s face twisted with distaste. “Has it somehow escaped your notice that you are representing the Alliance? Did you sleep in that shirt?” 

“I think we all know where _he_ slept,” Leonie snickers under her breath, wagging her eyebrows in response to Claude’s glare. Lorenz’s eye twitches. 

“Ugh,” Hilda groans as she pushes open the door. “ _Now_ what are you two fighting about? Claude.” She snaps her fingers and gestures to the closest bench. “Sit down, you look like you have a pineapple on your head.” 

Lorenz huffs in agreement and turns his back, body language making it very clear that he disavows all responsibility. Claude takes a seat with his eyes rolling, Hilda hopping up on the bench behind him and beginning to tidy up his hair. 

“I swear,” she mutters quietly, “if you and the Professor tie the knot, I’m giving you a _comb_ for a wedding gift.” 

“I didn’t exactly have the best morning,” he mutters back, then is interrupted by the door opening. 

His breath catches. 

They’ve wrapped her in gold and white and purple. There is a golden diadem shining on her brow, the Sword of the Creator glowing a deeper red at her hip. 

His duchess. 

His queen. 

Hilda nudges him with a soft snort, and Claude snaps out of his stupor. Byleth is flanked by Rhea, with the knights spread out in a semicircle behind them. They’re both watching him. 

“Teach,” he greets, hopping to his feet. “Lady Rhea.” He tosses his head towards the doors and the Deer form up in a loose semi-circle to mirror the one at the door, him and Hilda making up one edge. 

Nobody steps into the center spot. They all, even Lorenz, know who belongs there. 

He wishes he could have just a few words with her before this, without Rhea listening. He holds her eyes instead, pretending to scratch his left wrist and feeling the blade tucked away in a hidden pocket in his sleeve. He thinks, from the way her eyes flick to his arm and widens, that she remembers it. 

“Well,” he says easily. “No time like the present, eh?” 

“Indeed,” Rhea says. 

Byleth swallows thickly. 

“Right.” Claude looks over his shoulders, getting a quick read on each of his housemates. Lorenz is barely restraining himself from suggesting himself as Alliance representative instead of Claude. Marianne is frightened. Flayn has a weird look on her face that he’s not sure what to make of. Eager and apprehensive in equal measures, maybe. “So. I have a bad feeling about this,” he says out of the corner of his mouth, voice pitched too low to carry. “Rhea might — I don’t know. Stay on your toes.” 

“Claude,” Lorenz hisses at his shoulder. “ _Lady_ Rhea is the archbishop of the Church of Seiros, not some double-dealing smuggler. Please _try_ to not embarrass us.” 

“Um,” Marianne says, looking past Claude toward Byleth and Rhea behind her. “The Holy Tomb is, well, holy, isn’t it? You don’t think…” She wets her lips nervously. “The Goddess won’t strike us down for setting foot there, will she?” 

Lorenz snorts. 

“I plan to keep some distance to our dear leader,” he says. “Just. In. Case.” 

Leonie snickers, slapping Claude on the back. 

“Come on, Loverboy,” she whispers, making Hilda titter. 

“Oh yes,” Hilda croons, hooking her arm around his. “Your lady awaits~!” 

Claude pastes a smile to his lips and makes sure the knife slides easily out of its sheath. 

* * *

Linhardt makes a faint sound when the intricate metal panel they spent so much time trying to make sense of responds instantly to Rhea’s touch. The etchings glow under her fingers as she slides them across the pattern until a chime sounds from somewhere, and then the floor shudders. The groove in the floor turns out to be the edges of a large platform, which starts sinking smoothly through the floor with the people closest to Rhea on it. Byleth is among them, as is Rhea’s escort of knights and most of the Black Eagles. Claude is not. 

It takes some graceless aggression, but he manages to elbow his way forward to jump down before the platform is more than a foot or so below floor level. He’s surprised but grateful to see Hilda follow just a step behind him, expression daring anyone to question her and face the particular kind of cruelty wielded by very pretty teenage girls. 

Byleth turns to look at him, standing at Rhea’s side. Her eyes are apprehensive as they meet his, but the set of her mouth is determined. He makes his way to her side in the shapeless gloom while Rhea sends the platform up again, the darkness absolute save for their few torches as the it seals against the ceiling far above. Then it detaches again, the remaining students visible as curious silhouettes peering over the edge as the platform descends. 

Claude reaches for a torch, grabbing Ferdinand’s wrist to raise it and squint at the platform. 

“Okay, I can’t be the only one who wonders, right? How does this work? Are there counterweights? Some kinda winch somewhere?” 

“I believe it’s powered by a Crest,” Linhardt says.. “It’s unsurprising that the Archbishop would have one, though I’d be curious to know which one. It did not respond to either of ours.” 

The platform touches down, Dimitri joining Claude and Edelgard a step behind Byleth and Rhea. Rhea traces another pattern on the panel, and a green light blossoms high in front of them, emanating from a rectangular stone throne on a raised dais. Claude hears Byleth draw a sharp breath. 

“Are you surprised, Professor?” Rhea asks, leading her up a set of stairs toward the throne. He glances at Dimitri and Edelgard as they follow a step behind, the rest of their housemates left by the platform with the knights. Dimitri meets his eyes, shrugging softly to indicate that he has no idea either. Edelgard ignores him entirely. 

Rhea stops. 

“This is where the Goddess who created this world was laid to rest, along with her children,” she says. “It is said that she sat upon this very throne. I wonder… Do you recognize it?” 

Byleth shoots the archbishop a glance and shakes her head, but any child could tell that she’s lying. Her wide collar flops around her ears. 

“Is that so,” Rhea says, letting the attempt at deception pass with a tolerant smile. Claude’s fingers reflexively brush the release mechanism for his knife, seeking comfort. _Relax_ , he tells himself, willing his tense shoulders to drop. 

“Sit upon the throne, Professor,” Rhea says. “The Goddess awaits you.” 

He hasn’t been able to come up with a scheme to stop this. Delay it, yes — but then Rhea would go through with it in secret, and Byleth would cooperate because she wants her invisible friend back. She won’t leave willingly, and while he’s considered slipping her something and smuggling her out unconscious, well… He has a feeling that might cause some friction once she wakes up. 

Byleth steps forward, slowly ascending the steps, and Claude takes a deep breath. He holds it as she turns at the top of the stairs, looking to Rhea for confirmation. The archbishop nods, and Byleth sits on the throne. 

Claude’s heart hammers in his chest. He’s not sure what he’s expecting — a flash of light, Byleth to shudder and convulse, a choir of angels, who knows — but there’s nothing. Byleth shifts, looking increasingly embarrassed as the seconds turn into minutes. 

“Well?” Rhea asks anxiously. “I don’t understand.” Her face falls. Claude glances over his shoulder. There was… “It was supposed to be but a step away.” …a scrape? Like metal against stone? 

He squints into the darkness at the far end of the cavernous room. Something glints. Has someone wandered off? Besides Linhardt that is, but he’s plainly visible poking around down by the closest of the sarcophagi spaced around the chamber, little lantern in hand to see better. 

Claude conducts a quick headcount, suspicion rising. All the Deer are accounted for, as are the Lions, as are the rest of the Eagles. How many knights were in Rhea’s party? Dimitri notices his distraction and looks over his shoulder, frowning. 

A faint silhouette takes shape in the gloom, then another one… Okay, definitely not _that_ many. 

“Sorry to make a bad day even worse, archbishop, but —” 

“What could possibly be _missing_?” Rhea wails, covering how her mouth twists with grief behind a slender hand. 

“Halt!” Dimitri shouts, spinning on his heel. “Reveal yourself!” 

“— we have company,” Claude continues. Dimitri strides forward, positioning himself between their group and the party crashers, lance raised defensively. Hold up, Dimitri gets to have a _lance_? Shamir wouldn’t let him use a damned breadknife without supervision. 

And… _Huh._

Those are imperial colors. He turns, staring at Edelgard, and the princess meets his eyes for a fraction of a second, triumph in her face. 

“Nobody move!” she shouts, before kicking Rhea in the back of the knee. Claude swivels on instinct, catching her left hand in his at the same time her right arm hooks around the archbishop’s neck, pressing her dagger to her throat. His blade presses against Edelgard’s wrist, kissing the sliver of skin between her sleeve and her glove. 

There is a moment of perfect stillness. Dimitri’s eyes boggle. Byleth blinks owlishly at them from her seat on the throne. 

“Um,” Dorothea says, eyes moving between the imperial troops marching into the light in formation and the standoff in front of her. “Edie?” 

Claude smiles, cloying and venomous. 

“My, my. Seems we’re at an impasse, princess,” he says, tapping the knife’s edge against her wrist. “So let me guess. Grave robbery? The holy mausoleum held the Sword of the Creator. What did they stash here?” Edelgard tries to tug her hand free. “Ah-ah,” Claude admonishes. “You wouldn’t want me to break skin with this, would you?” 

Hubert chuckles. 

“He’s bluffing, Lady Edelga— _Your Majesty._ The knife was up his sleeve.” Wait _— majesty?_ His network in the Empire needs work, true, but he didn’t think it was so bad it’d miss a damned _coup._ Or did old Ionius finally kick the bucket? “And von Riegan lacks the conviction to risk his own life.” 

Claude hesitates for a moment while Edelgard glares at him out of the corner of her eye. Hubert is right, damn him: he chose the poison on the knife to fight off lone assassins, not an invading army. It disables quickly — a useful feature when you want the opportunity to ask questions — but it doesn’t kill. 

He glances at the imperial troops. Only the threat of their princess’s — emperor’s? — imminent demise is holding them back from chopping him into pieces. 

‘Stand back or I’ll give her a migraine’ is _not_ going to cut it. 

“I could have an antidote,” he improvises with an easy shrug. 

“Is that so.” Hubert smiles like a snake. “I’m sure we can… _convince_ you to share it.” 

“Oh, torture? On the first date?” Claude sucks on his bottom lip, miming serious consideration. “Sure you want to take that risk? I might be tougher than I look.” 

Edelgard snorts. 

“I would certainly hope so,” she mutters. She lifts her head, easing the pressure of her jaw against the back of Rhea’s head. “Let go of me now, von Riegan, and you may still walk out of this alive. Everyone!” she calls to her troops. “Secure the crest stones! Fódlan has been—” 

Rhea surges up, head driving hard into her captor’s chin. Edelgard reels backward with a grunt, her fingers closing around Claude’s wrist to catch herself. She yanks herself back, forcing Rhea down. 

The archbishop’s headdress clatters to the floor as they struggle. Claude freezes. Edelgard’s glove is sliced through, red seeping into her white glove. _Shit_. 

“ _Don’t. Move,”_ Edelgard hisses in Rhea’s ear. “A slit throat kills even your kind. Doesn’t it, _archbishop?_ ” 

… _huh?_

Rhea bares her teeth. 

“You will burn for this insolence,” she snarls, voice shaking with fury. “Professor!” Claude’s eyes flick to Byleth. She’s standing before the throne, mouth open in shock. “Destroy these traitors! Destroy everyone who _dares_ dishonor our creator!” 

“Uhhg,” Edelgard groans. Her eyes turn to her bleeding hand. _“Claude…”_ she says warningly, dragging his name out. Good thing, because as soon as she finishes, she’s gonna kill him. Her knees tremble. 

“Oh wow, look at the time,” he babbles, trying to tug his wrist free. For a woman quickly losing control of her limbs, Edelgard is remarkably strong. “So sorry, Princess. But I just remembered I have a prior engagement…” 

Hubert’s eyes narrow. “Take him alive,” he orders, and Claude’s struggles intensify. _Come on come on come on._ A group of soldiers step forward, leaving formation and passing Hubert, striding up the stairs towards where Claude is locked with Edelgard, _who has surprising grip strength for someone with such small hands_ — 

Claude stills, blinking. Not all of the soldiers are wearing imperial red. 

“Seriously?” he asks. 

Behind the group closing in on him, there’s a row of those weird mages in the bird masks. The flat eyes of their masks glint green as the light of the throne is reflected back in them. 

He frowns at Edelgard. “ _You_ are in bed with the Flame Emperor?” 

“You really are a fool,” she says weakly, finally letting go of him. Her fingers spasm at her side, the trembling in her legs obvious now. Sweat is beading on her upper lip. “No. I _am_ the Flame Emperor.” 

Someone gasps. Other than that it is eerily silent save for the rhythmic thread of armored boots approaching, until he hears the distinctive rasp of the Sword of the Creator dragging out of its scabbard. 

“Di-Did you…” Byleth stutters. “My father…” 

“No,” Edelgard says. She suddenly looks so _sad_. “Please, believe me. I had nothing to do with that.” She shakes her head. “You are the one person I did not wish to make an enemy off.” 

There is a moment where everyone holds their breath, one instant balancing on the knife’s edge where maybe, possibly, they can contain this and avert disaster. 

…which is when Dimitri loses his fucking marbles. 

He laughs at first, a raw, deranged little giggle that makes a shiver run down Claude’s spine, and then launches himself toward Edelgard. His lance thrusts forward, uncaring that Claude is standing _between_ him and his target. 

Claude yelps and throws himself to the side. Edelgard shoves Rhea at Dimitri, stumbling back on numb legs as the prince and the archbishop untangle themselves. Edelgard staggers away down the stairs, bracing herself heavily on the railing. Claude rolls onto his stomach on the cold floor tiles and watches her disappear into the first rank of soldiers, one taking her arm to support her. 

Well, at least _she_ won’t be much of a threat for the next few days. 

“STOP HER!” Dimitri roars, at the same time as Rhea shouts at her knights to attack. Her golden headpiece dangles from a few taut strands of her hair. The grin on Dimitri’s face is the stuff of nightmares: “I’ll tear her head from her shoulders myself!” he snarls, charging into the group of soldiers coming to capture Claude. He tears through them like a bull through a paper bag and sets off in pursuit of Edelgard, throwing himself at the imperials with no concern for the fact that he’s outnumbered a hundred to one. 

After that performance, it doesn’t take many seconds before chaos engulfs them all. 

Felix is first to dive into the melee — he scowls and yells at Dimitri to calm down, but that doesn’t hinder his own advance. He darts in, blade flashing, a smirk growing on his face as opponents fall before him one by one. Ingrid and Sylvain are only a moment behind him, and together they plow into the Imperial forces — as one does, assuming one is a suicidal idiot. At least they’ve brought their damned relics, though seriously? Is that a Faerghus thing? Was there a memo that he missed? 

If there was, he concludes while scrambling to his feet, then the Eagles didn’t get it either. He watches them, standing in stunned silence while the imperial forces draw closer. Their expressions range from confused through horrified and betrayed, to sheer panic. Bernadetta is wailing, tears streaming down her face. Caspar looks from Edelgard to Rhea and back again, eyes wide, like he plans to join in the fight as soon as he’s figured out on which side. Linhardt isn’t there, the casket where Claude last saw him already engulfed by the enemy. Claude hopes he’s alright. He’d surrender immediately, he thinks. There’s no reason for them to hurt him. 

Petra slowly looks from housemate to housemate, looking like she desperately hopes she’s just misunderstood a word and that this isn’t really happening. When reassurance fails to manifest, Dorothea shaking her head in mute denial, Petra spins on her heel and draws her blade, standing protectively in front of her class. Ferdinand steps up beside her, sword trembling as he raises it against his countrymen. 

The imperial advance parts around them like waves rolling against a pier. 

Claude watches Ferdinand as he deflates, shame and relief in uneasy union on his face. He had no idea, Claude concludes. His father is Prime Minister and he had no idea. Petra just looks confused, turning to follow the soldier striding past her with her eyes. 

A little way to the left, the remaining Blue Lions — the ones less afflicted with that uniquely Faerghus insanity — are taking cover behind a sarcophagus together with his own class. Well, Dedue is leaving to wade into the melee in pursuit of Dimitri, but Claude is willing to give him the benefit of the doubt regarding sanity. He seems intensely loyal, and gods know Dimitri could use the assist because the moron is finally losing momentum while alone in a sea of imperial uniforms, and — _Gods._ He crushed that guy’s skull with his bare hand. _Eww. Gross._

Something zips past his shoulder and Claude throws himself flat, crawling into the sparse cover provided by the railing and peeking between the balusters. Something hits the stonework, and dust and stone-chips spray across his face, making him flinch back. 

“Claude!” Hilda calls, worried. She’s crouched with the class behind the closest casket, reaching a hand toward him though she’s a good ten steps away. Her other arm is clutched tight around Marianne, who is praying desperately. 

He’ll scamper over there in a minute he decides, just as soon as he has a read on the battlefield. The rolling line of clashing steel where Rhea’s guard meet Edelgard’s forces is still a distance away. He has time, and the view is better from here. 

Some of the imperial soldiers not busy being mauled by Dimitri have gathered around the sarcophagi. They have tools with them, are prying he ancient caskets open and rummaging inside, stuffing their findings into sacks. _The crest stones,_ Edelgard had said. _What do they want_ them _for..?_

Whatever it is, it’s probably bad news. 

He squints into the dim, greenish light. There she is, still retreating, her arms looped around the shoulders of two soldiers bent almost double to accommodate her height. Her head is hanging, chin fallen to her chest, and if her feet reach the floor at all they’re probably dragging uselessly over it. But her eyes are open, and her mouth is moving as she gives orders to her troops. He sees Hubert, elbowing his way towards her, and Dimitri, fighting his way through the ranks of imperial soldiers with hellish ferocity. Sylvain and Ingrid are back to back, Dedue is still held up at the junction between the clashing forces, fighting next to Catherine who — 

A hand grabs him by the back of his coat, and Claude yelps, twisting, knifehand flailing toward his assailant— 

“It’s me!” Byleth blurts, jumping back. They stare at each other for a moment, eyes wide. 

“Did I cut you?” he asks. He can’t see any blood on her. 

“Why are you still here?!” she demands, grabbing onto his arm and pulling him towards the stairs. “Are you alright?” 

“The blade’s poisoned, _did I cut you_?” 

She ignores him and hauls him down the stairs like a sack of turnips, her face locked in the resolute blankness she’s famous for. Behind it, though, her eyes are burning. She’s angry, but more than that, she’s worried. “Get to cover!” she says, shoving him at his assembled housemates where Raphael thankfully catches him before he faceplants into the ground. 

Worried faces fill his field of view, and Marianne reaches a hand for his head. He tries to fend her off, trying to get Byleth back in his vision, until the chilly brush of healing magic tingles through his scalp. Oh. There’s the taste of blood in his mouth, and when he touches his fingertips to his face they come away wet with blood. He doesn’t remember it happening, but it must have been debris from something close-by. 

“He’s alright,” Marianne sighs with relief. 

Claude wriggles free from Raphael’s embrace and pushes past Leonie, peeking around the corner of the sarcophagus to watch Byleth slam into the first row of imperials like a hurricane hitting the edge of a forest. She’d be feeling the first effects of the poison now if he broke her skin. Behind him, Lysithea mutters a word he did not think she knew and pops up behind the sarcophagus, magic erupting from her fingertips and converging in dark tendrils on one of the masked mages, who goes down screaming. 

“I can’t believe Edelgard would ally with _them_ ,” she spits when she ducks back down, then looks sheepish for a moment. “After Remire,” she stutters. “And the professor’s father.” 

She is not as gifted a liar as she is a mage. Curiouser and curiouser, Claude thinks: first her odd reaction to the dagger that slew Jeralt, now _’them’_. She knows something, no doubt about it, but he’s already tried all the methods of persuasion that still lets him look at himself in the mirror. 

Still though, she has a point: what the Empire and the Church do to each other isn’t really any of his business — actually, their forces decimating each other works in his favor in the long run, so good riddance to both of them. The Flame Emperor and Solon and their ilk, though. He can’t forgive what he saw in Remire, and Byleth sure as hell can’t forgive what they did to her father. 

“Alright,” he says, waving the Deer and remaining Lions into a huddle. “I have no idea what they want those crest stones for, but if we let them get them I seriously doubt we’re going to enjoy the result. What do you say we do something about it?” 

Lysithea scoffs and and fries another poor bastard who made the mistake of wandering within her range. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Claude says brightly. “Marianne, Flayn…” He nods his head at Lysithea. “If you’d assist our homicidal friend?” He surveys whatever passes for his troops. They have a total of three swords among them, and none of those swords are attached to a person particularly skilled in their use. 

“Lorenz,” he says. “You went to magic school, didn’t you?” He nods at the sword on Lorenz’s hip. It’s ridiculously ornate, the hilt fashioned into a gilded basket of rose branches, but ostentatious or not, he cannot imagine Lorenz carrying a blade of anything but the utmost quality. “Mind lending me that and joining the casters?” 

“I, Lorenz Hellman Glou—” 

“Great,” Claude cuts him off blithely. “Thanks.” He reaches for the sword, and Lorenz looks annoyed but doesn’t stop him as he slides the blade free of the sheath. The shape of the basket means it can only be gripped in his right hand. He weighs it in his hand for a second, considering, before handing it on to Ignatz. 

“Hilda?” he asks with a smirk. “Are you feeling, I dunno, _delicate?”_

“Oh! Yes. Very.” She unbuckles her belt and thrusts it, rhinestone-encrusted sword and all, into his chest with enough force that he’s knocked back into the casket behind him. “Phew, I thought you were going to make _me_ go out there.” 

“Oh I am,” he says with a grin. “But you can swing a candlestick.” He nods at Leonie who has picked up one of the tall candelabras from the floor, and Hilda groans, flopping dramatically against the side of the sarcophagus. 

“They look so _heavy_. Raphael, could you be a dear and —” 

“No,” Claude says. “Don’t even try. Raph, are you okay with your fists?” 

“Oh yeah!” Raphael is just finishing wrapping strips of his torn off sleeves around his knuckles. “I can carry the candlestick though, it’s no problem.” 

“That’s okay, Hilda will manage. Anette, Mercedes?” The two girls look up. “If I might conscript you as honorary Golden Deer while Dimitri is out there doing…” 

They spend a few moments staring in horrified silence. 

“That. _Yikes,”_ Claude concludes with a grimace. Anette’s hands cover her mouth. “We could use the extra firepower, if you don’t mind. Ashe, are you any good with that sword?” 

“I’d be better with a bow…” 

“Oh yeah, me too, but I don’t have one. You coming?” 

* * *

They skirt around the side of the room, the mages laying down cover fire while they fight their way to the next sarcophagus and then following behind while the advance party keeps the path open. Ashe turns out to be rather crappy with a sword, but a natural at grave robbing. He’s not entirely comfortable with it, but the lids of the caskets are locked down with some kind of mechanism, and without proper prybars it takes ages to get them off. 

“We could guard them instead,” Ashe tries, eyes pleading. “We can leave the crest stones where they are.” But then they’d have to spread out and leave a guard on each tomb. Claude generally tries to persuade rather than command, but time is short and Ashe is so easily bullied it would take concerted effort not to. He gets the caskets open, at least, and carries them in an impromptu sack made from his uniform jacket. 

The battle roils around them. The more dangerous foes are tangling with the knights and the irate Faerghians, while the ones sent out to collect crest stones are easily dispatched. That is, until Edelgard’s evil-looking commander strikes them from the side. 

Claude doesn’t even see him. He just hears Leonie gasp, almost gurgle, and spins on his heel to see her stumble, sharp metal protruding through her gut. The healing spell hits her the next instant, followed by another, and despite the vicious twist the man puts on the blade when he withdraws it, Leonie still catches herself on her hands as she crumbles to the floor. Fire strikes next to her, and her assailant has dodge away from her side. 

Raphael attempts a grapple and the man giggles, twirling out of the way and slicing a deep cut across Raphael’s ribs. 

“Protect Leonie!” Claude yells, thrusting Hilda’s blade at their foe in a move that doesn’t have much hope of connecting but does catch his attention. Ignatz scurries to the side, trying to get in the guy’s blind spot, but the man drops low and sweeps his leg for Ignatz’s feet, knocking them out from under him and making him crash to the floor. Claude engages again, his knife hidden in his palm, hoping to get his offhand past the man’s guard so he can cut him with it. He wouldn’t move like that if he was seeing double and unable to feel his feet, now would he? 

He almost gets close enough when Hilda lobs her heavy candlestick at the man’s head, but he recovers, and — _oh shit_. 

Ignatz is still struggling to his knees, a hand clutched to his head. Hilda is unarmed. Ashe is trying to help Leonie and Raphael. Claude is facing this psycho alone, and he is far outclassed. He parries the first blow high, moves back, trying to keep his distance — low redirect, dodge, parry — this guy is so _fast_ —! 

He can’t keep up, he thinks, panic rising as he narrowly avoids a slash at his throat. The poison is his only chance. He closes in a desperate attempt to feint, clumsy because Hilda’s sword is so much shorter than he’s used to — the man sees through him and counters in time, the flat of his blade smacking painfully into Claude’s wrist. 

“ _KILL HER!”_ Rhea roars across the room. 

The knife falls from his numb fingers, and the moment after his feet are swept from under him. He’s gonna die, he thinks as he falls, eyes meeting Raphael’s in something like slow motion, before he smacks into the stone with his elbow first. Pain shoots up to his shoulder, and Claude grits his teeth. 

_No he’s damn well NOT._

He twists out of the way of the blow meant to finish him, now face down on the chilly stone floor with pain making his vision white out when he tries to lift himself on his injured wrist. It’s enough. No blade skewers him where he lays, the man instead exclaiming in surprise behind him. 

Something hard hits the floor and bounces against his thigh, and then there is a grunt and sounds of a scuffle. A crest stone rolls past him, settling in the gap between two flagstones. Claude pushes himself onto his side so he can see, and is met with the glorious sight of a furious and disheveled Lorenz swinging a candelabra as tall as he is at the imperial commander, who is held fast against Raphael’s chest with his feet pedaling uselessly in the air. 

What follows is not pretty. He’s pretty sure the guy is already dead by the time Byleth shoves her way out of the remains of the melee, but that doesn’t stop her from lopping his head off, her mouth a grim merciless line. 

The fight goes out of the few remaining imperials. Their commander is dead, their Emperor vanished — Claude learns later that Hubert grabbed her and warped away just as Dimitri was getting close — and they surrender to the knights. Rhea, in a move that Claude saw coming a mile away but that apparently surprises them, orders their immediate execution, which is carried out right there by the knights. Dimitri sits in a world of his own at the end of his trail of carnage, occasionally muttering to himself, which — oh boy. Fódlan was just turned upside down, and the crown prince of Faerghus has gone mad. Great. 

He climbs to his feet, cradling his wrist close to his chest. It throbs with every beat of his heart. All along, it was _Edelgard…_

Good hand rubbing the sweat and blood out of his face, he turns back to the Deer. Leonie is standing up. She’s leaning on Ignatz, her face pale and her posture hunched, but there’s a strained grin on her face as she answers Byleth’s questions while Flayn and Marianne fuss over her. Mercedes hurries past him to where Sylvain is propped up between Ingrid and Felix, both of them angrily ranting at him. Annette follows closely in her wake. 

“Thanks,” he says to Lorenz, before turning his head to Raphael. “You saved my ass back there.” 

Raphael rubs the back of his neck. 

“Wouldn’t have gotten to you in time if Ashe hadn’t thrown that rock,” he says, laughing sheepishly. 

“Yeah?” Claude bends down gingerly and picks it up. It looks like the stone in Failnaught, scale-like pattern smooth under his thumb, but there’s no crest carved into it. Which are these stones, for that matter? He thought the crest stones of the ten Elites were the only ones, and they’re accounted for with their respective families. Could this stone correspond with one of the Saint’s crests? The legends doesn’t mention them wielding relics, a fact that always struck him as odd. Maybe they did, and the Church covered it up? Are there four unknown relics hidden away somewhere? 

“Thanks man, I owe you one,” he says to Ashe, not taking his eyes off the stone. If there are more relics, that would explain what Edelgard was after. He frowns at the stone, committing the pattern of the scales to memory. Linhardt, who has resurfaced unscathed, might know. If Cethleann had a relic, he’d be inheriting it. 

“Are you injured?” Byleth asks, her hand gingerly reaching for his injured one. 

“I think my wrist is broken,” he says, letting her take it. She pulls his sleeve back carefully and he tenses, the merest brush of material agonizing. He’s already swollen, his wrist bruised dark where the blade had hit him. Byleth carefully turns it, calling for Flayn. 

“Allow me,” Rhea says, the fury in her voice now chilled and reigned in. “That _wicked_ girl,” she hisses to herself as she wraps her hands around his wrist, but her touch is gentle and with that odd tingle of coolness his body repairs itself under her guidance. 

“Thank you,” he says, flexing his hand to check, but Rhea has already dismissed him from her mind. Her eyes are fixed squarely on Byleth. “Restore the crest stones,” she orders the crowd, reaching for Byleth’s hand. “Come, Professor,” she says, tugging Byleth with her. “We must decide upon our next course of action.” 

Claude watches them go, Byleth looking back at him over her shoulder. He needs to speak to Dimitri. With the Empire and the Church in open conflict, Fódlan is thrown out of balance. The Alliance will be asked to pick a side — if he can make joint cause with Faerghus then perhaps he can avoid a lengthy conflict within the Roundtable. Perhaps he can work towards his goals while also keeping his adopted nation intact. 

Out on the blood-drenched floor, Dimitri begins to weep. He shoves Mercedes away when she attempts to comfort, screaming at her. 

_Great._

Looks like he’s doomed to live in interesting times. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter took me some time because... _I had a baby!!_
> 
> *celebratory trumpet noises*
> 
> Just a few days after posting last chapter, in fact. It was a bit unexpected, we thought it would be several more weeks. But everything went well and we're all healthy <3 
> 
> ...baby is tiny and wonderful and looks like a miniature Captain Picard. I love him immensely, even when he pukes on me.


	15. The lull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude sets his pieces on the board, and Byleth loses something dear to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a long one. 
> 
> Kudos to [wearwind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearwind/pseuds/wearwind) for talking this chapter over with me several times. You made it a lot better.

When Byleth was a girl, she and her father would summer in Leicester. The weather was reliably pleasant, and the local nobles’ fondness for playing at war meant there was plenty of work to be had. Her father liked it because those conflicts had _rules_ : the captains of the competing mercenary bands would meet at the beginning of each season and decide on terms of engagement. It was in everyone’s best interest — there was no bonus paid for cruelty, and with the ever-changing alliances as companies took contracts with different lords, you never knew if your prisoner today would be your brother in arms tomorrow. 

This is not a Leicester summer campaign, and there are no rules. The imperial messenger’s blood spreads across the polished marble of the audience chamber and stains the hem of Rhea’s robes. Catherine bends down and wipes her blade on the dead woman’s cloak, then plucks the letter she was carrying out of her slack fingers. She hands it to Rhea with a bow, and the archbishop casts a cursory glance over the words before dropping it into the spreading puddle. She grinds it under her sole, careless of the blood soaking into her embroidered slippers. 

“A declaration of war,” she scoffs. “The Church of Seiros rejects it. House Hresvelg has no mandate to declare anything without sanction from the goddess.” She takes a few slow breaths and schools her face. “Shamir? Are the scouts in the air?” 

“Yes.” Shamir stands on the outside of the small gathering, leaning against a pillar with her arms crossed. “The immediate surroundings are clear, but we have seen no sign of Edelgard.” She sounds calm, almost indifferent, like the passive reflection Byleth can see of herself in the floor. She wonders if Shamir is hiding as much turmoil under her cool surface as she herself is. Less than an hour has passed since Edelgard’s betrayal, and Byleth is not indifferent at all. 

Claude clears his throat. She hasn’t had a chance to talk to him since Rhea took her hand and dragged her along in her wake, but he looks better, moving his hands as he speaks without signs of pain. There are stains on his clothes and traces of dried blood flecking his hair like brown-red dandruff, but his face and hands are clean. 

“Divine sanction or no,” he says, “the Empire maintains a bigger army than the Alliance and the Kingdom combined, and most of our forces are tied up at the Locket. If they march on the monastery, we’re in trouble.” 

Dimitri laughs. 

“Trouble?” he asks. “No, it is our good fortune!” His smile has too much teeth in it, the kind boy who spoke so gently to her after her father’s death nowhere to be seen. “I feared you had killed her with your little trick and denied me the satisfaction.” His eyes glitter. “Let her come. I will meet her at the gates, and raise her severed head as tribute to the dead.” 

Claude’s eyes dart between Dimitri and the others present, a barely noticeable crease forming between his eyebrows as the silence drags out. 

“…Right,” he says slowly, one eyebrow rising. “Perhaps we should ask her a few questions before we sever any heads, though. Like… Who are these allies of hers? Are there more of them hiding behind someone else’s face? What really happened at Remire? What do they want the crest stones for?” 

“No,” Rhea declares with finality. “Her forked tongue has spread enough lies.” 

“Are you serious?” Claude asks. “C’mon, Seteth — They took Flayn. Don’t you want to know what that was about? What if there’s some… Blood spell, or anoth—” 

” _No.”_ Rhea’s voice is icy. “We will curb her rebellion, we will put her to the sword, and nothing more will be said about it.” 

Claude opens his mouth again, and Rhea forges on. Claude, thank the heavens, thinks better of interrupting her. 

“Now: both of your bloodlines are sworn to the service of the Church. What can you offer the goddess in this hour of need?” 

Dimitri straightens. 

“Arianrhod is well-garrisoned. If the scouts show her marching toward Garreg Mach and not the Kingdom border, I would gladly offer their swords.” He stops, frowning for a moment. “I would request one boon, in exchange.” 

“Yes?” 

Dimitri’s lips twist into a ghastly grin. 

“Edelgard is _mine_ to kill.” 

Rhea considers him. 

“Very well,” she says, lowering her chin in a nod. “As long as she gets her due.” Her stare is piercing as she fixes it on Claude. “And the Alliance?” 

“I sent a messenger before coming here. The Roundtable will convene, of course, but until a decision is reached to engage the Empire, any house that sends aid would leave itself exposed to its neighbors.” 

Rhea’s eyebrows pull together in displeasure. 

“Is the Alliance so steeped in disharmony that you cannot forswear your feuds while what is most holy stands threatened?” 

Claude snorts. 

“I think you’ll find that what’s most holy in the Alliance is actually gold,” he says, voice dry. “And going to war with the Empire would upset a lot of trade. I’ll do what I can, but frankly, my influence is limited as long as I’m stuck here.” 

Byleth tenses, and immediately tries to cover it. Is this Claude’s plan to get out? The idea of him leaving tears at her insides, but at the same time it would be a great relief to have him out of harm’s way before the war really starts. As for herself… Rhea hasn’t officially conscripted the students to monastery defenses, but she figures that’s only a matter of time. And there’s no way she can leave while her students stay to fight. 

“You would run?” Rhea asks. “Need I remind you that your family’s authority was granted by the Church? It can be rescinded.” 

“True,” Claude says, shrugging with infuriating nonchalance, “but it’s money that’s kept us in power. Anyway, it’s not me I want to send, it’s Hilda. Her brother holds command at the Locket, and she may be able to convince him to send troops before a Roundtable decision.” 

Rhea studies him for a few seconds, as if expecting a trick. 

“I was under the impression that the fortress was a joint endeavor of the Alliance houses.” 

“Yeah, sure, but we can’t sit around waiting for a decision every time the Almyrans attack, can we? Holt has a mandate to act in military matters.” His lips quirk into a cheerful grin, unconcerned by Rhea’s scrutiny. “Or if you prefer, you can hire some mercenaries. House Riegan would be happy to extend you a loan.” 

Rhea’s anger is clear in her face, and Byleth holds her breath. He’s playing with fire, Rhea’s temper already fraying. And he’s already given her one answer she didn’t like. 

“Very well,” she says, her voice clipped. “Send Miss Goneril off at once. Shamir, escort him, please, or I fear he may lose his way between here and the Academy. Report back with the latest scout reports.” 

Claude catches her eye as he turns, offering Shamir his arm with a flourish. She snorts and walks past it, grabbing him by his dirty yellow cape and making him stumble to catch up. 

With Claude out of the line of fire, some of the tension drains out of Byleth’s body. The events in the tomb play behind her eyes. All along, it was Edelgard… 

She said she hadn’t killeed Byleth’s father. Was that the truth? And what was her plan, that time she offered the Empire’s protection when they spoke in Claude’s room? Does she know about Sothis, or was she simply trying to recruit a skilled swordswoman with a legendary blade at her side?” 

Nobody addresses her, and she’s lost deep in thought until Shamir pushes the doors open, striding back up the chamber to whisper in Rhea’s ear. The archbishop’s eyes grow wide. 

Seteth huddles in with them, listening, his jaw clenching at Shamir’s words. They confer for an additional few minutes, Byleth, Dimitri and the knights waiting with bated breath. 

Seteth looks up, his face pale. 

“The Imperial army is marching,” he says. “Their full might, already armed and mustered. They’ve been assembling at Fort Merceus.” 

Byleth sucks in a fast breath. _Merceus_. That’s not far beyond Gronder Field. Preparations must have already been underway there when they visited for the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. 

She remembers Edelgard laughing at the impromptu feast afterward The colorful tents of the camp were lit up from within in a glorious waste of lamp oil, and in the biggest one the three house leaders sat curled up at the end of a long trestle table with a bottle of contraband, giggling quietly, while Hubert and Dedue lurked on opposite sides. 

She remembers Claude’s warmth draped against her side when she escorted him back to the tent assigned to the Deer later that night, after Lorenz complained that he was an embarrassment to the Alliance in his intoxicated state. _I_ _’m not actually drunk, you know,_ he’d whispered in her ear, suddenly sounding perfectly sober. _Though if pretending gets your arms around me, I might let you buy me another beer sometime._

Byleth had flushed, but not dropped the arm around his back. 

Now, she feels cold. Claude’s flexible relationship with the truth makes her feel like the ground is shifting beneath her feet sometimes, but Edelgard’s skill at duplicity is chilling. 

“We estimate two weeks until arrival, given their baggage train,” Shamir says. “The plains are muddy; that will delay them some.” 

“Two weeks?” Seteth whispers. “That is not enough time! We will barely have time to fortify the battlements!” 

Rhea straightens. 

“We have not a minute to waste,” she says. 

The rest of the meeting passes at a frantic pace. Messages are dispatched to local lords. Dimitri takes his leave to send a message to Arianrhod, hoping they may be able to send relief before the Imperial jaws close around them. The town outside the monastery’s walls is notified of the threat, and then the teachers themselves are dismissed to inform their classes. 

Byleth hurries out, eager to be away from Rhea, but Seteth catches up to her in the vestibule. 

“A word please, Prof… Miss Eisner,” he says stiffly. “I realize it seems a minor matter considering the day’s events…” He clears his throat and folds his hands behind his back. “But I have been informed of this morning’s indiscretion.” 

* * *

The monastery is eerily quiet as Claude hurries down the stairs with Shamir shadowing him, their footsteps echoing in the empty reception hall. When he steps out from under the colonnade next to the classroom and into the sunlight, it is into the first break of spring out of the dreary clutches of winter. 

“What a waste of a beautiful day,” he says, and Shamir shrugs noncommittally. “You really are a delightful conversationalist, did you know that? I’m so glad Rhea is encouraging us to spend this time together.” 

Shamir raises an eyebrow. 

“It’s tragic that _a war_ has gotten in the way of you enjoying the weather.” 

“Right?” Claude presses his fists to the small of his back and leans into them, knuckles digging into tense muscle. “On any other day, I’d be looking for a sheltered spot to take a nap in the sun right about now. What about you? What prey do you stalk on your days off?” 

“Little deer who nap when they should be training. I trust you can accomplish your task quickly?” 

“Convince Hilda to stay out of a fight? Yeah, I think I’ve got this one.” 

“See that you do.” She nods once and starts walking away. 

“Hey Shamir!” he calls after her, and she glances back. “Could you ask a runner to come update us on whatever the scouts say?” 

She nods and walks around the corner. Claude pushes the door open. 

The Deer are gathered at the top of the classroom. Flayn is pale and red-eyed; Hilda is weaving elaborate braids into her hair, chatting with her and Marianne as if clinging desperately to normalcy. Leonie and Lorenz are at each other’s throats. From the few words he catches before they turn to look at him, he think it’s more for the comfortable familiarity of it rather than any particular disagreement. 

“Claude,” Lorenz says, for once not leading with criticism. There is a slight tremble to his voice, and Claude stumbles over his words for a moment. Lorenz beat a man to death protecting him not two hours ago. It’s hard not to feel something about it. “What news?” 

“We’re at war,” he says grimly. “Or, the Church is, and the Kingdom looks to be joining. I’ve sent messengers to the Roundtable members.” 

“What about us?” Lysithea asks. 

“Us the Alliance, or us the Golden Deer?” 

“The Alliance.” She swallows nervously. “Will Edelgard come for us once she’s done with the Church? My family’s holdings are right at the border, and we can’t resist an Imperial invasion.” 

“I’m aware.” Claude drums his fingers on a desk. “Yes, I expect so. Neither can Gloucester, unless your father has been doing some serious recruiting lately, Lorenz.” 

Lorenz shakes his head, lips pressed thin. “Unfortunately not. Our efforts have been focused elsewhere.” 

Improving the road to Myrddin, Claude knows, hoping to cash in on trade across the border. Unfortunate timing for them. Advantageous for House Riegan, assuming there’s still an Alliance to rule once this is over. 

He nods. 

“Then we have to pull troops from the Locket. Faerghus won’t win against the Empire, not if Edelgard’s planned this for a while, and The Church has no army to speak of beside the Knights. Our best bet is to make them fight a two-front war, or they’ll pick us off one after the other.” 

“Umm,” Hilda says, frowning at him. “What if _we_ end up fighting a two-front war? If we’re getting conquered, then at least the Empire is civilized.” She shudders theatrically. 

Claude neatly pushes his bruised pride into the sealed ‘crap he’s willing to take’-box in his soul. One day, he promises himself. One day he’ll take her home and let her see for herself. 

Besides, unfortunate as that may be, the first part of her concern isn’t unwarranted. There are plenty of raiding camps and minor forts dotting the eastern slope of the mountains, not to mention the regional capital where one of his half-brothers holds court. Their father might not condone a full scale invasion, not while he’s hoping for Claude to bring the Alliance into the fold intact, but that won’t stop his brother from taking advantage if they slacken their defenses. 

There’s no helping it. They’ll have to warn the villagers, tell them to run at the first sign of trouble and be ready to compensate them for whatever they lose. His brother has honor, of a sort. He won’t go hunting for unarmed farmers. 

“They have raiding parties,” he says, “not an army ready to invade. If we defeat the Empire quickly, our soldiers will be back before Almyra is ready to act.” He chews on his bottom lip as he calculates. “Convince Holt to send three quarters of his troops here. Warn the villages near the border and task the remaining soldiers with holding the Locket and only the Locket. As long as we have the fort, we can take back a few miles of mountains if we lose them.” 

Hilda looks skeptical. 

“My brother is not going to like that.” 

“Good thing you’re so very persuasive, then.” 

“What?” Hilda blinks. “This is your plan, persuade him yourself.” 

“Ah, but he’s not nearly as sensitive to my puppy-eyes. Besides, those of us who stay are bound to be roped into helping somehow. Now most of us are archers or mages so I’m guessing we’ll be asked to patrol the walls, but you and Raph…” He pretends to think, making a show of rubbing his chin for a second too long. Then he smiles brightly. “I’m sure the masons would be happy to have your help carrying mortar and stone!” 

Raphael lights up. 

“Our arms are gonna get huge! If we run with the load, then we can get in cardio as well as a great full-body workout. I bet I can carry a full barrel of mortar. Two barrels!” 

“Two whole barrels?” Claude asks, grinning at Hilda’s pout. _“Wow_. Hilda will have to carry a _lot_ of rocks to keep up.” He bats his eyelashes at her. “I’ll go tell Seteth that you volunteered right away, shall I?” 

“You know, I think I _will_ visit my brother,” she says with a sour twist to her mouth. “To tell him I’m being _bullied_.” 

“Great!” Claude grins. “That way he’ll hurry here to kick my ass.” He beams into Hilda’s scowl before he schools his face into seriousness. “Don’t take no for an answer. We can hold the monastery for a while, but we’re relying on you to get the army here before we starve.” 

Hilda swallows, her fingertips leaving pale indentations in her skin where they’re pressing into her thigh. 

“That should be alright, then,” she says. Her laugh sounds brittle. “That’s what I’m best at, after all. Wrapping my big brother around my finger.” 

“Good. I’ve already gotten Rhea’s blessing for you leaving.” He smiles wryly, looking from face to face. “As for the rest of us, we’re free to go as we please as long as it is to join the glorious crusade against the wicked Edelgard.” He raises his eyebrows. “If you’re planning to head home instead, I’d recommend you do so quietly.” 

He was honestly expecting at least a few of them to look frightened at the prospect. The odds aren’t in their favor. Claude himself isn’t running _yet_ , but he sure as hell has a plan to get out. 

Instead, for perhaps the first time ever, it’s Marianne who speaks up first. 

“I won’t go,” she says, eyes downcast. “I don’t think… The Goddess wouldn’t like it, what Edelgard is doing. So I have to do what I can to stop it.” 

Hilda turns her head toward her downturned face, eyes wide. 

“Marianne…” she says, her shiny pink bottom lip trembling. 

“Don’t worry about me,” Marianne responds, trying and failing to look brave. “The Goddess will protect me. I hope.” 

Claude grins. He wasn’t expecting that, but he can use it. 

“House Edmund representing, I see,” he says, taking a few steps away from the group while stretching his arms behind his back. He looks back over his shoulder, catching Lorenz’s eye and grinning. “The Gonerils are coming to our rescue. I’m kind of obligated to stay, of course — Lorenz, I’m surprised you haven’t spoken up yet.” He hops up onto a table and lets his smile grow teeth. “Why did the Church make us nobles if not for this?” 

Lorenz’s back is stiff. 

“I need to confer with my father,” he says. 

“No, you don’t.” Claude dangles his feet, his heels tapping against the table leg. “Actually, my scheme relies on you not doing that.” 

Lorenz bristles and stalks over. 

“If you expect me to play into your hands in a scheme _against my own father_ _—_ _”_

“There, there,” Claude soothes, leaning back to brace on his hands. “We both know he has extensive business dealings with the Empire. A war with it would be a financial disaster for him. In fact, knowing him…” 

“Are you,” Lorenz enunciates icily, voice pitched so low only Claude can hear him, “accusing my father of treason?” 

“Treason? Perish the thought; as I’m sure you’re aware, your father is his own liege. House Riegan can’t forbid him from swearing fealty to Edelgard if he so pleases.” 

Lorenz’s eyes narrow in suspicion. 

“So what’s your point?” 

“But you’ve seen what the Flame Emperor does. You don’t want to join her side.” 

“Well— no. But my father is head of House Gloucester, and it is my filial duty to obey.” 

“So? Be proactive. Anticipate his instructions. You are, as you’re so keen on reminding us, a very _noble, honorable_ man. Surely you don’t expect less of the dear old Count?” Claude waits for a few beats while Lorenz wavers. “You have his seal, don’t you? Send for a few companies from Myrddin. As opposed to Holt, they might actually get here before we are besieged.” 

“That’s…” Lorenz swallows uncomfortably “Not what I anticipate him deciding. Even though I might wish that it were.” Something shifts in his face, and his impeccable posture reasserts itself. “No. I will not fall victim to your machinations. My father is a great man, and I will not let you _use me_ to undermine him.” 

“Well then,” Claude says, slipping off the table and into his personal space. Lorenz refuses to budge, standing tense and going cross-eyed as Claude gets closer, “I don’t want to say this out loud and lower morale,” he speaks softly, “but you know as well as I do that the odds are bad. The monastery is too _big_ _—_ we don’t have enough people to hold all the walls. All Edelgard has to do is get her army here and there won’t _be_ a lengthy siege for Holt to save us from.” 

Lorenz nods stiffly. 

“It had occurred to me,” he says. “I assume you realize that if I stay, she will attempt to take me hostage, thereby all but guaranteeing my father’s entry among her ranks.” 

“Of course.” Claude says, indicating Hilda and Marianne with a twitch of his head. They’re sitting a little bit away from the others, whispering with their heads together, their hands clasped. “Marianne too. Only Edmund has nothing to gain by joining her cause, and you know he’s not a sentimental man.” 

Lorenz’s eyes widen slightly. 

“She’s his _daughter!_ ” 

“Adopted, just a few years ago. I don’t get the impression they’re close.” 

“So are _you_ ,” Lorenz hisses, and Claude chuckles coolly. 

“Please. You think I’m staying once the tide turns against us? I’m not letting myself get captured.” 

“Then take her with you!” 

“Mmm.” Claude taps his chin in mock consideration. “I’ll make you a deal. You send for those soldiers so we stand a chance, and in return I’ll get you both out if they breach.” 

“You..!” Lorenz looks outraged. “If I don’t and something happens to her, it’ll be just as much your fault! More!” 

Claude knows the smile he meets Lorenz’s appalled face with isn’t pleasant. He leans into it, lets all the callousness the world beat into him float to the surface. 

“I think I can live with it,” he says, going up on his tiptoes until his cheek is just faintly brushing Lorenz’s. “The question is, can you?” 

* * *

Byleth pauses. Not even Seteth would call robbing the church and threatening the archbishop’s life an indiscretion. So that means… 

“Oh.” 

“Quite.” Seteth straightens his collar. “In light of your… liaison with one of your students, the Academy cannot in good conscience keep you on as a professor.” 

Byleth’s stomach sinks. She never meant to be a teacher, but now it’s all she knows how to be. With her father gone, what else is she supposed to do? 

“My students…” she tries. War is coming. If she’s not there, then who will look after them? “Please,” she says. “Don’t send me away. You will need my sword against Edelgard.” 

“Indeed.” Seteth sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can’t say I’m entirely surprised, hiring someone so young, with your…” He gestures vaguely at her. “Unorthodox background. As you are correct in that the Sword of the Creator _will_ be necessary, we can offer you a commission with the Knights of Seiros. You will move into their wing immediately; I am sure I won’t have to explain why it is not appropriate to have you sharing accommodations with the students.” 

“What about my class?” she asks woodenly. 

“They will be split between Professors Manuela and Hanneman; with the Empire at our throats, we do not have the time or resources to —” 

“Seteth,” Rhea says behind him. Byleth did not even notice her walk up. “Do not be so hard on her.” 

Her smile is gentle when she extends her hands toward Byleth, her touch warm when they land softly on her forearms. Hope dares to blossom. She knew getting involved with Claude was… improper, but given everything else that’s happened, how he was there after her father’s death when she thinks she may have broken apart without his arms holding her together, perhaps it can be excused. Perhaps Rhea’s fixation on her will grant her the Deer back. 

“Dear child,” Rhea says. Her palm cups Byleth’s cheek, and while goosebumps rise on her neck Byleth smiles and tries to relax into it. “Listen closely. If the monastery is invaded, my place is on the battlefield. I ask that, if something happens to me, you carry out my sacred duties.” 

“I…” Byleth blinks. “Me?” 

“Rhea, surely —” Seteth tries, but Rhea cuts him off. 

“Make sure it is known, Seteth, in case something befalls us both. The faith must be kept alive.” 

“I—” Seteth sighs, folding his hands at the small of his back. “Very well.” 

“I have held this seat for so long,” Rhea continues, the backs of her fingers caressing Byleth’s cheek. “But you — you can lead the people of Fódlan. I only pray that you remember who you really are before… Well. I am sure you will.” She adjusts the wide golden sash draping over Byleth’s torso. “You already look the part,” she says, her fingers tickling the sensitive skin behind Byleth’s ear as she tucks a strand of hair away from her face. Byleth suppresses a shiver. “We will talk more later.” 

With that, Rhea glides back toward her private chambers, leaving Byleth and Seteth in uncomfortable silence. 

“I will inform your class,” Seteth decides after some seconds. “To ensure the matter is handled with the required discretion.” 

Byleth watches him go, until the echo of his footsteps in the stairwell has faded into nothing. She feels hollow, and only an empty throne remains of the presence that would have understood her loss. 

Well. She has a war to prepare for. _Up and at_ _‘em_ , as her father would advise. 

She walks briskly down the stairs, cutting across the lawn outside the classrooms. The door to the Golden Deer classroom is closed; she sets her jaw and walks on, not letting melancholy get to her. She’ll get her personal effects and be moved out before her students come and make it harder. The room means nothing: her class is what’s important, and while she is poorly placed to protect them now, at least Seteth didn’t forbid her from talking to them. 

“Teach! Wait up!” she hears called behind her, and turns to see Claude jogging up to her. “I didn’t get a chance to ask before,” he says in a low voice, looking at her closely. “The goddess, did anything happen?” 

It takes Byleth a moment to reorient herself. Strange, how an experience you’re prepared will be momentous can be almost forgotten in light of what comes after. 

“No.” She shakes her head. “She wasn’t there. But it is her throne. It’s… still there, or one just like it, in the back of my mind. She used to sit on it.” 

“Well — okay, I guess that means she was _that_ goddess, at least.” Claude frowns in thought. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted her to be there, but I can’t pretend I’m not relieved.” 

Byleth looks at him. Behind him across the courtyard, she sees Seteth step out of the classroom. His head turns their way. 

“Seteth didn’t tell you?” she asks. 

“Tell me what?” Claude asks, twisting to look. “I was walking Hilda to the wyvern pens.” 

Byleth sighs. 

“I’m not your teacher anymore.” 

“What,” Claude says, eyes widening, “Why not?” He turns to Seteth, who is approaching. “What’s going on?” 

“I think you know perfectly well,” Seteth says, meeting Claude’s display of wide-eyed innocence with a long-suffering look. “The Officer’s Academy has a reputation to uphold. It cannot have teachers who... _Dallies_ with their students.” He looks at Claude with narrowed eyes, as if daring him to argue. 

Claude, caught naked in his professor’s bed by the archbishop herself, for once choses to hold his tongue. Seteth’s eyes narrow further. 

“And don’t imagine for a moment that I think Miss Eisner was the instigator of this. You are suspended with the possibility of expulsion, so I suggest you mind your manners until your case has been ruled upon.” 

Claude looks at him for a moment, then chuckles. 

“What, like, after the war?” 

“I… suppose so, yes,” Seteth answers with evident pain. 

“Are there going to be any classes?” 

“Most likely not.” 

“Can I stay as a visiting noble in the meantime?” 

Seteth sighs. 

“Yes, I expect you can.” 

“So to be clear: my punishment is a) moving to a suite, and b) not doing chores? Man, Hilda’s gonna be so mad she missed out on this. If she was still here I’d tell you to lock your door at night.” 

“ _Even so,”_ Seteth says, refusing to take the bait. “While I’m at this point certain that it would be meaningless for me to tell you to end this… affair, I would be obliged if you would at least show some discretion. The last thing we need right now is noble parents refusing to help in the war effort because they think the Church’s agents are seducing their children.” 

“Ah, but what if their children are sed—” 

“Claude,” Byleth says, feeling as tired as Seteth looks. “Enough.” She nods at Seteth. “Yes.” 

Seteth nods and strides off, no doubt to a sundry list of tasks to prepare the monastery for Edelgard’s arrival. 

“You know,” Claude says. “I really didn’t think Rhea would risk losing you over me. But… it doesn’t matter, does it? You’re leaving with me anyway.” 

“She made me her successor.” 

Claude stares at her. 

“Come again?” he says. 

“She made me her successor.” 

“I heard you, it’s just… Do you realize what that _means?_ _”_

“That I become archbishop if Rhea is killed?” 

“Well… yeah. Wow. Okay.” Claude combs the hair back from his face with his fingers. “Today has really been a day, huh? Let’s… Tea. It’s way past time for tea.” 

Byleth nods. 

“My room,” she says, because Claude cannot quite be trusted to not improvise with tea cups when he runs out of the more specialized glassware he uses in his distillations. And she can pick up her personal effects while she’s there — she needs a moment to process, anyway. She thinks everybody does. 

* * *

Stepping into the room is almost surreal. Her clothes are still lying where they fell last night, her trousers in a crumpled figure eight where she stepped out of them to crawl onto the bed and her lover. 

Her lover, who deflates the moment he latches the door behind him. 

“ _Fuck,”_ he says with conviction, and slowly slides to the floor with his back to the door. His fingertips press against his eyelids. “I can’t believe I’ve spent all this time untangling the wrong damn conspiracy.” He shakes his head, blowing all the air in his lungs out with a huff and looks at her. “How are you holding up?” 

Byleth shakes her head too. 

“I’m not sure myself,” she says, crouching down by the fireplace. Ashes, already cold. She feels rather like that, used up and discarded, but the words stick in her throat. Speaking them out loud won’t make her feel better anyway, so she stacks some kindling instead and starts a fire, swinging the kettle over the flickering flames. Rhea’s huge damn collar flaps in the corner of her field of view, and Byleth suddenly loses patience with it, tearing the golden fabric off her shoulders. The loose sash follows, and then she’s twisting and trying to figure out how the long cloak is attached, tugging angrily at it until Claude comes to help her. 

Once free of the trappings of enlightenment, she sits in silence next to him for several minutes, their stare into the flames only interrupted by Byleth occasionally throwing another log onto the fire. 

The water boils, and she’ll do something about it soon, just give her one more moment of quiet, of peace. Her hand reaches for Claude’s, twining tight with his when he opens his palm to her. Not long after, his cheek comes to rest on her shoulder. 

“I feel like I was playing chess,” he says. “And I looked up for just a moment, and when I looked down there were suddenly four colors and the pieces could ricochet off each other.” 

Byleth hums in agreement and reaches for a tea tin, Claude righting himself when she shifts. She doesn’t check the label, she doesn’t particularly care which one she drinks right now anyway. 

“You’re the expert,” Claude says, the fire reflecting in his unfocused eyes. “What are our chances, Teach?” 

“I’m not—” 

“It’s a nickname. Go on, woo me with your martial prowess.” 

“They’re poor,” she says after a short delay, shaking some leaves into the pot. Her tea is safe to drink, unlike Claude’s it rarely has a worrying hint of sulphur, but she’s not particularly choosy in her tea making. “Edelgard has been preparing this for months, years even, and she’s had free run of the monastery to scout its weaknesses.” She pours the water, an aroma of ripe red berries rising from the steeping tea. Sweeter than she’s in the mood for, really. “And that’s not taking into account that there could be others like Tomas and Monica to sabotage us. It will take, what, at least a month for Holt Goneril to get here with his army?” 

“Probably more. The Locket isn’t supplied for long expeditions. He’ll have to find carts or something for the baggage train.” 

Byleth nods. 

“We can’t withstand a siege that long. It’d be better to leave. We could evacuate the Church to Arianrhod and meet Edelgard on our own terms there instead.” She pours a cup of tea. “Here.” 

Claude accepts it, blowing steam off the surface. 

“But Rhea won’t hear of it?” he asks. 

Byleth pours another cup and sips it. 

“She’s strangely convinced we will win.” 

“The monastery has secrets,” Claude says, brow furrowing in thought. “She could have the Immaculate One squirreled away somewhere, for all we know.” Then he smiles, watching her over the rim of his cup. “You know, it’s been a while since you sounded this sure of yourself.” 

She frowns. 

“It’s a siege. I’ve been in sieges before, I know how they work.” 

“I’m just saying — war looks good on you.” 

Byleth doesn’t respond. She’s been a mercenary for as long as she can remember. She’s mostly fought bandits and other mercenaries, a few times raiders along the borders with Sreng or Almyra. That’s not what she sees when she pictures what’s to come when Rhea and Edelgard clash. 

She sees Remire. 

“What are you going to do?” she asks, and Claude sighs deeply. He sets his cup down on the floor and drops back, stretching out on the carpet. 

“I have to stay,” he says, eyes on the unlit chandelier above him. “If I don’t, my ambitions become just about impossible to fulfill. But…” 

Byleth frowns. 

“But what?” 

“They’ll do their best to kill me — or, Hubert will at least. I’m not sure about Edelgard, she seemed prepared to let me go earlier, but I know how Vestra thinks. The others can be taken hostage and leveraged for their families’ cooperation, but I’m a natural rallying point for her opposition. Dimitri too.” He thinks for a second, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. “Take us out of the equation, and the Kingdom will be crippled until they decide on the succession and the Alliance will be falling over itself trying to profit off the power vacuum my grandfather will leave behind when he dies. Easy pickings, both.” 

“I won’t let him,” Byleth says, and Claude quirks a grin. 

“I appreciate the sentiment,” he says, “but he’ll have a literal _army_ to sic on me. But don’t worry: as it happens, I put some work into finding a way to smuggle you out a couple weeks ago, and as I’m not as impossibly stubborn I’m actually going to use it when my life is in danger.” His expression changes, smug turning focused as he pushes himself up on his elbows. “You’ll come with me, right? You won’t stay and actually fight for Rhea..?” 

“Not for her,” Byleth says. “But if there are students still here, fighting, I can’t just leave. I have to try and keep them safe.” 

“Come to Derdriu, keep me safe,” he grumbles, curling back up to sitting. “If the monastery falls, you going down with it won’t help anyone. It’s better to retreat and regroup.” He rubs his forehead, thinking. “If what you want to protect people you can do that better from there. As Rhea’s successor you’re suddenly important — I think you formally outrank me now, actually. With you publicly supporting House Riegan we might be able to unify the alliance like it hasn’t been— well, ever. We’re a quarrelsome bunch.” 

“How can I protect anyone from half a continent away?” she asks quietly. 

“You could… inspire a peasant army, or shame the Imperial lords who are still pious into defecting. Really, this is— Teach, you can be a legend. We’ll talk you up as a second Seiros — maybe not use that phrase, it’s probably heresy — and you can lead the Alliance army, Sword of the Creator held high, and Edelgard won’t know what hit her.” 

“But what about the students here?” 

Claude shrugs. 

“Take them with you. I’ll make sure Derdriu offers them sanctuary. You can’t save everyone as a teacher swinging a sword, but as a holy woman steering the course of nations? You just might.” 

Byleth swallows thickly, staring into the flames. It’s too much. The world was shifting too fast for her this morning, but she knew who she was in it. Not anymore. 

“I’m just a mercenary,” she mumbles. “Who became a professor.” 

“That’s true, we should play on your background — warrior priestess kind of thing then. The soldiers will love it. I’ll make you a general, how about that?” 

“That’s not…” she starts, when a shriek sounds from outside. Tea splashes over her boot as she knocks the cup over in her haste to get on her feet. 

She is met with the sight of Manuela dragging a flailing Bernadetta out of her room. 

“N-No!” Bernadetta wails, fruitlessly trying to free herself from Manuela’s grasp around her arm. “Please just leave me! I won’t tell, I swear, I won’t even leave my room! Nobody will know I’m still here!” 

Manuela scowls. 

“Why would I ever want that? Bernadetta, _stop_ , I’m not trying to hurt— _Oww!_ ” Manuela folds over, clutching at her shin, and Bernadetta scampers back into her room, slamming the door. Manuela mutters under her breath while summoning a healing sigil in her hands, pressing them to her shin. She tries the door, which doesn’t budge. 

“Right,” she says, glancing Byleth’s way as she approaches. “Linhardt, I know you can open the door — are you bringing all that?” 

Linhardt looks up from where he’s sitting on a large traveling pack, wrapped in one of those quilts stuffed with down. His hair is wet and neatly combed. 

“Hmm? Oh, no. This is Caspar’s, he enjoys carrying things. I’m only bringing my research notes.” 

Ferdinand frowns. 

“Linhardt, we will be traveling for a week at the least.” 

“Yes. I took the opportunity to have a warm bath and eat my fill. As long as I conserve my energy, I’m sure we will have enough between us to keep me from starving.” 

“It is really not very befitting for a noble to mooch off of one’s companions…” 

“I brought jerky!” Caspar exclaims. “And raisins! And we can hunt on the way!” 

“Yes, quite, but—” 

“Please just open the door,” Manuela says with a sigh then turns to face Byleth. “Professor,” she says with a pasted-on smile. 

“Not anymore,” Byleth answers quietly, crossing one arm over her chest to rub awkwardly at her arm. Her eyes dart to Claude, who’s ambling over with his usual mask of casual curiosity. Manuela’s eyes widen in alarm. 

“Oh, honey,” Manuela says, “You’re not..?” She taps two fingers against her belly, and Byleth shakes her head quickly. 

“They made me a knight instead,” she says. “And Rhea’s heir, I think. Because of this,” she adds, indicating her hair, “not him.” Manuela’s eyebrows rise slightly in amusement. “I didn’t expect —” Byleth continues, frowning as she tries to explain herself. “I didn’t plan for this to happen. With Claude or becoming Rhea’s successor.” 

“That makes one of you,” Manuela says dryly. “That boy stealing your heart, that is, not a twenty-year-old mercenary being elevated to head of the Church, I doubt he has _that_ foresight.” 

Bernadetta’s door swings open and she screams, a potted plant nearly hitting Linhardt in the face. 

“Oh no no no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— _Eeee!_ _”_ She appears in the doorway lifted over Caspar’s shoulder, grabbing on to the door frame as he carries her out. Ferdinand requests that she please calm down. 

Manuela looks their way wearily. 

“Dorothea,” she asks, “would you please help Bernadetta pack? Quickly.” Her shoulders droop. “They’re still children,” she says, turning tired eyes on Byleth. “You understand, don’t you? This isn’t their fault. Don’t try to keep them here.” 

“You’re sending them back to the Empire?” Byleth asks. Claude has joined Linhardt, chatting quietly. She’s not expecting the pang of possessiveness. 

“Yes. Right now everyone is still in shock, but the Empire will not be looked upon kindly once word spreads. She faces Byleth squarely, her face set in determination. “You may be a Knight of Seiros now, but you were a teacher just this morning. Imagine if it was your class.” 

Byleth’s stomach clenches. While she has a hard time picturing Claude pulling something like _this_ — for all that he tries to act the any-means-to-a-victory tough guy, she knows he doesn’t have the stomach for it. Remire was proof of that — the reason she got close to him in the first place was worry that he’d do something to bring Rhea’s wrath down upon his head. She’d never even considered that the rest of her class could be punished in his place. 

“You should hurry,” she says. “They would make valuable hostages. It’s best they’re out of here before someone comes to secure them.” 

Manuela nods. Dorothea is handing a well-stuffed bag to a shivering Bernadetta. Claude, now standing with Petra and evidently admiring the pelt rolled on top of her (reasonably sized, practical-looking) pack, says something to them, and Bernadetta squeaks, scampering behind Dorothea. 

“Oh,” Manuela says. “Edelgard was such a charming girl, I never expected… Well, none of us did, I’m sure. Though I suppose Hubert should have served as a warning.” She looks at her remaining students, sitting on their luggage. Byleth hopes she managed to secure them a carriage, because aside from Petra and Linhardt with his book bag, they’ve all packed far too much to walk. 

“I don’t expect to be welcome back here,” she says, looking around at the spires and towers of the Monastery. “Goddess watch over you, Professor. Or…Byleth? Is that alright?” 

Byleth smiles sadly and reaches out to squeeze her hand. 

“Please.” 

“Byleth.” Manuela squeezes back. “We must be off. Goodbye.” 

She calls to her class and tells them to get going, and Caspar asks for just one moment. Then he pulls a fish out of a little wrapped packet in his pocket and crouches down to peer under the wooden landing in front of the dormitories, cooing at something. 

“Caspar, what — whatis _that_?” Manuela demands and walks over, hands on her hips in disapproval before she ushers him along to catch up. Byleth tilts her head watching them pass. There’s really no mistaking the black and white creature squirming in Caspar’s arms for anything but a cat. She’s surprised Manuela couldn’t tell. 

“I can’t _leave_ the little guy!” Caspar blurts. “What if the army really does invade— what if there’s a _fire_ , or a siege and he gets hungry — what if _somebody_ else gets hungry and _eats him_ , I can’t—” 

Petra lags behind for a moment, glancing about herself before darting back to Claude, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. His hands come up, wrapping lightly around her elbows, his lips dipping close to her ear. He’s whispering something, Petra’s braid bopping slightly as she nods. 

Byleth swallows. She close enough to see Claude’s eyes, and while his lips are smiling fondly, his eyes are calculating. 

Petra draws back and nods once at Claude and once at Byleth before running to catch up with her housemates, raising a hand in goodbye before she vanishes behind the corner by the pond. Claude stands looking after her for a long moment after she disappeared. 

“That,” he says, voice low so as not to carry, “was between Brigid and the Alliance, not between me and her.” 

Byleth swallows down the ugly feeling in her chest. 

“I know,” she says. His eyes doesn’t look like that when he’s kissing her. Should he be pretending at that, he’s doing a much better job. 

Still. There is a war coming, and he will need allies more than he needs love. 

Particularly since her love will be his regardless. 

* * *

The knight’s quarters are nestled in the gardens, not far from the stables. In summer it’s probably lovely: Claude expects it smells of roses, growing thick on the gnarled branches covering the wall, but in the winter he mostly feels a faint whiff of manure. The romance of his current adventure is further hampered by the fact that he seems to have miscalculated the windows, which not only meant seeing more of Alois than he ever wanted to but also demonstrated that his gloves aren’t quite thick enough to keep the thorns from pricking his hands through them. 

Byleth is reading in bed when he peeks in through the window, the yellow tint of the candlelight making her hair look almost blonde. This morning, he was afraid of losing her to Rhea and her goddess. It feels a lifetime ago now. 

He makes some noise slipping the window hasp open in case she is still keyed up, and she looks up from her book. 

“You do realize that the guards have been ordered to shoot on sight?” she says once he’s opened the window and poked his head through. “Why aren’t you in your suite?” 

“It’s boring. And I wanted to see you, and you didn’t seem to be coming my way.” He climbs in, shutting the winter out. “You should, the bed’s huge.” 

“Seteth told us to be discreet,” she says. 

“We are!” His jacket is chucked over the back of her desk chair but slides off and falls to the floor. “These walls are thick and nobody saw me climb in or they would have raised the alarm. Besides, you already got fired over me.” He grins, wagging his eyebrows as he toes off his boots and crawls onto the bed, rolling onto his back and arching luxuriously, fingers trailing up his belly and pulling the hem of his shirt with them. “Might as well enjoy the spoils.” 

He’s not expecting her to look away. 

“It’s not funny, Claude.” 

“It’s a little funny — no, hey, hey.” He scrambles up and cups her cheek. “Don’t look like that. It doesn’t matter if you’re our professor or not, we’d all follow you through hell.” He touches their foreheads together. “You’ve lost a title, nothing more. And Rhea gave you a much more powerful one.” 

“She did.” Her hand pushes at his breastbone, and he drops back to sit on his ass on the blanket. Byleth shifts under it, pushing herself upright against the headboard. “You must be pleased.” 

“I—” Claude blinks. “Sure. I am. It’ll help.” 

“Did you plan for it?” He laughs, but it dies in his throat. She’s looking at him so seriously. 

“That Rhea would name a mercenary with all the theological schooling of a turnip as the next archbishop of the Church of Seiros? No, no I did not. Why?” 

“Did you seduce me on purpose?” 

“I wouldn’t really say _seduced_ , you were pretty eager as soon as I said you could touch.” 

“But you meant for us to be lovers.” 

Claude frowns at her, confused. 

“Yes? Of course I did, it’s not like I stumbled and just happened to land between your legs.” Her eyebrows furrow slightly, but the rest of her face is impassive, like it used to be before they knew each other. 

“How much of it was real?” 

“What?” Worry starts to gnaw on him. “What are you talking about?” 

“You told me when we met. You’d build a deep and lasting friendship before asking for favors.” She closes her eyes. “And you did.” 

“I.” He blinks helplessly at her. “It was all real. It _is_ real.” He hesitates, worrying at his bottom lip. He knows what she’s getting at, of course he does, but that doesn’t mean… Apprehension rises in his gut, making his heart beat fast and hard. He can’t be losing her, not now when he needs her more than ever. 

“You’re right,” he says, “I do want your help in making my dreams reality. But I want _you_ too. By, I was serious when I said I’d marry you. And now, war permitting, I think I could spin it in far less than a few years.” 

Byleth laughs, short and almost scornful, blinking the tears out of her eyes. “Of course you could. An archbishop in your pocket would be worth it.” She rubs her eyes angrily. “And the Sword of the Creator too. I’m sure it’s a bargain.” 

Her words hit like a slap. 

“That’s not…” he stammers, trying to defend himself, but the words die in his mouth. He feels sick. His pride wants him to rise to his feet and storm out of her room, but he’s long since battered pride into submission. Lashing out won’t help his case. 

He takes a deep breath and holds it while he collects himself, imagining the hurt as water rolling off him and leaving him clean. 

“Claude?” she asks, and he looks up, meeting her eyes. 

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, it would be, and yes, I cozied up to you because I wanted the Sword on my side. I still do. But I never lied to you about how I feel. Everything with Rhea, and the goddess, your heart… I want to help you find the truth about it. I want to be at your side whatever it turns out to be, what you are.” He swallows thickly, reaching for her hand. She lets him take it, but it’s slack and unresponsive in his. “And yeah, I will use you. That’s what _I_ am. That’s what I do. So please:” He takes her other hand and tries to convince her of his sincerity with his eyes. “ _Use me back_.” 

She sighs, looking away from him again and no, _no_ — He shuffles closer, into her space, desperately throwing himself at these new walls she’s raised against him. 

“Byleth, please,” he begs. She finally turns back towards him, her expression unreadable, and he leaps, offering himself. “Tell me what you want and I’ll use every trick I know to help you get it. Anything. All the stars in the sky — say the word and I’ll steal them for you.” 

She reaches up to cup his cheek. She looks weary more than anything. 

“What am I supposed to do with stars?” she asks. Her thumb runs over his bottom lip. “I’m not like you, Claude, I don’t have ambitions. I’ll help you with yours, at least until this war is over, but stop trying to buy me. The company has a going rate if that’s what you’re after.” 

“What?” he says, frowning. The frustration is starting to seep through into his tone. “I’m not trying to _buy_ — I’m trying to make this relationship fair! But you don’t seem to want anything from me except sex, and I might just be humble enough to realize that my dick isn’t quite as legendary as your sword!” 

She closes her eyes, shutting him out, and Claude’s temper yanks at its reins. He fights it down, willing himself to stay calm. 

Her head turns slowly from side to side, her brows knitted tight together over closed eyes. 

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” she says, and Claude’s heart misses a beat. “You don’t have to — prostitute yourself, I never—” 

Claude stares, incredulous. That’s… 

“Wait,” he starts, thoughts slowly slotting into place. “Is that what you think this is? That I’m— only sleeping with you as some kind of _payment?_ _”_ He laughs, shrill and strained because it isn’t very funny. “I know you don’t own a mirror but _look down_.” 

Byleth does, her mouth forming a small ‘o’. Her cheeks pinken. 

“I don’t mean the sex,” she says quickly. “Or… Not just the sex.” She twists the blanket between her fingers, knuckles going white. “I was so alone after my father died. I didn’t want you to stop being my friend.” 

Something clenches in his chest, and a terrible possibility occurs to him. 

Oh. 

_No._

“Is this,” he ventures with sudden trepidation. “Is this about your father’s diary?” 

Byleth lifts a shoulder in helpless assent, and Claude falters, lost for words. 

“No,” he tries. “No, I didn’t mean it like that, I wouldn’t…” His face crumples and he hunches over, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. _“Fuck._ Those things I said. Did you think that I… That I’d only be your friend if you let me have it?” 

She looks at her hands and nods. 

Claude swallows. 

“And then— that I’d stop spending time with you if didn’t want to help me with things? Do things for me?” 

Her silence is answer enough. 

“What else?” he asks. Pleads, really. “What else did you do that you didn’t want to?” 

She squeezes her eyes shut, her jaw muscles flexing as she presses her teeth together. 

“I didn’t want to read about my father dying.” 

Claude’s heart sinks. Of course she wouldn’t. And he’d been— curious, like he always is, and he’d hurt her. Hurt her when she was already so very vulnerable, and kept hurting her without realizing. 

He remembers finding her that night, face swollen from crying. Remembers her crawling onto his lap and taking him inside herself for the first time, moving on him with more determination than joy. He’d thought he was comforting her. 

He didn’t realize the whole thing was his fault. 

“Gods, I’m sorry.” He closes his eyes. A hundred conversations flashes through his memory, being reevaluated with this new information. How many times… What did he say to her— _stupid._ He read the entire thing with the diary all wrong: she was never afraid for her secrets, that’s _his_ hangup, Byleth is too quick to share already. She was afraid of being alone. 

He’d thought they were so close that night, closer still when he’d told her to kiss him the next morning and she did. He’d been so _happy_ _…_

“Byleth,” he says, steeling himself for her answer. Gods, he messed up. He hopes he didn’t mess up _that_ badly. “Did you even _want_ to have sex with me?” 

“Yes,” she says, and the vice around his heart eases a little. 

“Okay. That’s… good.” 

She nods, and Claude, who prides himself on his eloquence, doesn’t know how to break the uncomfortable silence. He digs his fingers into his hair and pulls instead, letting the sensation focus his mind. 

“I promise I never meant it like that,” he says after a while. “I don’t know how to make this up to you — You know what, here.” 

His fingers slide beneath his collar, finding the chain. This isn’t how he wanted to do this: his grandfather will be furious, it will take years to patch up relations with the various lords who wanted their daughter as duchess, his mother will strangle him for giving away her ring… That’s okay, he can switch it out later — Byleth doesn’t have much of an eye for jewelry. 

He untangles the chain from himself, pulling out a few hairs from his nape in his haste, and brandishes the ring. The emerald flashes in the candlelight. 

“I can do this. I’m yours, Byleth. Whether you’re archbishop or not. I plan to _stay_ yours, no matter how many books you try to deny me,” a hint of a smile twitches across her lips, “or how many times you say no to my schemes.” He laughs, and manages not to choke on the guilt clogging his throat. “So we might as well make it official.” 

Byleth looks from him to the ring he’s holding out to her and back again. Claude waits with his heartbeat counting out the seconds. 

She smiles, small but true, her eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“Are you going to ask the question properly?” she asks, with a bit of that teasing lilt in her voice. 

“Depends.” He swallows. “Are you going to say yes?” 

Her lips curl into that little grin she tries to suppress when she’s teasing him, and oh no, he walked right into this one. 

“No,” she says with satisfaction. “This is a scheme, and I’m saying no.” 

Claude laughs, lighter this time. 

“And I’m yours anyway,” he confirms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a challenge to write but I finally feel done with it. I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you think :)


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